


A Wonderful and Painful Surrender

by titasylaise (atechamcham)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asian MGiT, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, MGiT, MGiT is terrible at magic, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Memory Loss, Mild Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Mostly Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prophetic Visions, Rewriting Cullen's Redemption Arc because I can, Slow Burn, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atechamcham/pseuds/titasylaise
Summary: On Earth, Cara closes her brown eyes, resigned to a tepid and normal existence, and wakes up in Thedas with irises sparkling the color of sunlight.Cara doesn't remember who the fuck she is, but they tell her this is Haven. The Frostback Mountains. Skyhold. Her memories comes back piecemeal, paired with visions of the near future that drag everyone in the vicinity into her mind with her. And of course, all of this would be bearable if the voice in her head would justshut up.(In which all this Modern Girl in Thedas wants to do issurvive, but the universe is hellbent on making her remarkable.)Updates every other sunday!
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s), Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Female Lavellan/Original Female Characters(s), Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 77
Kudos: 166





	1. The Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where it all begins: with a fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to my baby. please take a seat and grab some popcorn because i intend for this to be a _long_ one.

*****

To _feel_ anything  
deranges you.

To be seen  
 _feeling_ anything  
strips you  
naked.

**― Anne Carson**

*****

"Let me see the prisoner."

Broken ribs, unsure how many. Sprained ankle. Dehydration. Count your fingers. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._ All accounted for. Now toes. 

The stone floor is rough, scratching against the tender skin of my knees. Scabs likely reopening. Convenient. I chose the perfect day to have holes in my jeans. Fuck Casual Friday. 

And holy mountain of shit on a cracker, it's _cold_.

"Of course, Your Worship."

I open my eyes. It takes a moment for everything to swim into place, but when it does I take stock of people around me. There are several standing over me. Kidnappers? Police? White supremacists? A really intense LARP group that mistook me for someone?

Right temple's throbbing. Entire head fuzzy. Missed it in the routine check. A voice peeks from behind the cloud in my head. 

_"Do not falter."_

The girl walks past the others — who are keeping a fairly safe distance — and stands directly in front of me. I vaguely register that I'm on my knees, with my hands tied on my lap. Whoever did the knots must not have been very kind, because it goddam chafes like a motherfucker. 

The first thing I notice are her ears.

Pointed. Prosthetic? Costume? They certainly look real enough, but you never know these days. The power of make-up, or tricks of the light. Her eyes are comically large, with irises so dark and deep they might as well be black holes. Lenses? High cheekbones. Slender frame. Clothes that make the LARP theory most likely, somehow. 

When she speaks it's with the certainty of someone all too aware of the power they hold.

"It's her. From my dreams."

A man with blonde hair speaks up after her, and he has a lemon wedge scowl so deep I wonder if that's just his face, voice laced with disdain and possibly even disgust. Somehow I miss exactly what he says, but I understand all the same. I'm nothing but dirt under his boot.

After a moment, the hostility melts away as a dozen different emotions wash over his face. I'm in no state to untangle and pick it apart. Back to business. 

Nothing in my pockets. They must've taken my purse somewhere; I can't imagine I'd leave home without it. If I'm lucky maybe they haven't already sold my valuables. 

"You know this _apostate_?"

 _That_ I catch. The anger is back, like he'd just remembered it was the right emotion to have. The unfamiliar word sounds like a slur. Spit out like he'd rather say anything else. Not sure what kind of code white supremacists use these days. Add that to the possibilities. 

"She's… she's not an apostate." The elf girl sounds both certain and disbelieving.

"It's quite clear she's a mage," Another elf in the corner, bald, looks at me like I've got two heads and he's trying to figure out which one is real. Something about how he says it makes the rubber band around my head tighten. "Even here, I can sense how powerful she is."

" _No,_ but—" Anger flares in the elf-girl for a moment, but quickly dissipates, replaced quickly with an air of authority. "I am your _Herald_. You have to trust me."

"But—"

Might as well. I get nothing out of sitting here like a dumbass. 

"Who—" My mouth tastes like bile and blood but I swallow it down. _"Where am I?"_

The woman they called the Seeker stares down at me like a caricature of a cop desperate for an arrest. All sharp edges and the stench of aggressive authority. But it's the elf who answers, her voice even. It's clear she's in charge.

"You're in Haven."

Something in my head snaps into place, and the rubber band comes loose.

"Ha—" 

Every bit of air rushes out of my lungs and the word chokes me as it claws up my throat.

The flap of dark wings, and dots of red litter the sloping hills, splatters of blood, bright on snow. Wood splinters as brilliant purple flames erupt from the creature's maw. Hundreds of feet shuffle in the darkness, fear and rage and panic and hopelessness. And a single girl, standing defiant, her hand held high.

I don't know how I know, but I know there's no time left. The promise of death hangs in the air, and if I do not speak it will have its due.

I return to my body a moment after I've left, but when my vision refocuses the terror in the faces of the people standing around me makes it clear they'd seen something happen in my eyes. 

The Herald. That's what she called herself. I turn to the girl — her round eyes glassy with fear — and say with as much strength as I can muster, in a voice I'm not entirely sure is my own.

"You're in danger."

*

I've got to give it to them: regardless of whether or not they believe me, none of them waste a second trying to verify. 

They've seen some _weird_ shit before. Most of the people that were standing around to spectate my pathetic writhing rush out of the room. 

Based on what I hear — soldiers running, shouts ringing out, the sounds of merriment coming to screeching halt — my vision spurs them into action. At least my hearing is undamaged. 

What did I even _see_? A dragon. A place — which I'm assuming is Haven, where we are — under siege. An army made up of red soldiers, their mangled bodies buzzing with power. Cynical as I am, I want to say the warning's not nearly enough. But it has to be. I'm fucked otherwise. 

I still don't how I got here, or wherever the fuck "Haven" is.

"Leave her." A new voice speaks, a woman, steely and hard, her figure hidden just beyond my line of sight. "There's no reason to waste resources taking her."

 _Rude_. But the Seeker is blocking my view of this mystery woman, so I look up at her instead.

I commit the Seeker to memory. Cropped black hair, angry eyebrows, a scar on her right cheek. Armor that looks worn from use. Likely absorbing information will keep me alive in the short term, and there's no use pretending I'm dreaming. Everything aches too sharply for it to be a nightmare. 

She speaks as she drags me to my feet by the rope around my hands. Maybe it's her I'll have to thank for the bleeding around my wrists. I grit my teeth through the pain that shoots up my leg. Can't put much weight on my ankle, but it's likely nothing compared to dying.

"You can't possibly—" She tries to say to the woman at the door, but she's cut off by the same voice.

"My scouts had already spotted the bulk of the army. They arrived just as the mage spoke." Scouts. Outside verification then, I think. No way I could've known that, but that doesn't explain why this woman wants me dead. "It's an hour before they reach Haven on foot. The dragon we cannot account for. There's precious little time to waste."

" _Fenedhis,_ I'll take her," the elf girl grumbles, pushing back into the room. She pulls a knife from her belt and slices me free. The relief is immediate, but still I hiss as pain another wave of pain crashes through the rest of my body. Broken ribs confirmed. 

While I'm grateful to be free, the other two obviously think releasing me is a grave mistake, because the Seeker's hand immediately flies to the hilt of her sword, ready to stick me with the pointy end at the first wrong move. Hopefully none of my twitches freak her out.

Finally I get a good look at the other one. A redhead, with hair falling down to her chin. Her face is obstructed by shadows, head covered in a faded purple hood and the rest of her in what looks like leathers and chainmail. What the fuck did I walk into? 

"No. You will not harm her." The Herald warns, leveling the two of them with a glare that makes it clear all three of them have got better things to do than argue over the scrawny woman sitting in their prison cell.

This tiny girl must have the entire world eating out of the palm of her hand with how quickly they concede. The Herald must be, what? Their Commanding Officer? Boss? Clearly a military operation. 

She places a hand over my arm, and from the contact points a weird warmth prickles underneath my skin, like my entire body's fallen asleep. I grit my teeth as the pins and needles work their way through me, spreading from where she touched me all the way to the tips of my toes.

"Who—" I even out my breathing as the pain trickles away, like she's pulled the plug from a bathtub. I want to ask her how, what she did, but where are my fucking manners? "What's your name?"

"Fione," She answers, somehow holding me up despite being a slight thing. There must be a fuckton of muscle packed into her tiny frame, hidden by her clothes. "What's yours?"

I don't answer her until I can stand. Whatever she did didn't fix everything, but my nerves have been dulled out, like I've downed an entire bottle of painkillers. Count your fingers. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._ I don't want to think about the long term effects. Was it magic? Am I really dreaming?

My memory fails me. That comes with a ripple of frustration that sours my mood further. What did they call me? I try to conjure up a past, a childhood, but instead all I see is a cloud and faded images. Was it her spell? Is that a known side effect? Should I be taking note of this next time someone uses pins and needles to fix my injuries?

Fione tries to usher me out of the prison cell but for some reason my feet stay planted. Why can't I remember my fucking name?

_"Come now, dear, you're better than that."_

My mouth tastes like ash and the memory feels warm against my tongue. The image of the dragon carries it through, a flap of angry wings and the red glow of a man twisted beyond what could reasonably be called human. Corrupted, like me.

A single word floats up.

"Cara."

Fione smiles, and holds out her hand.

"Let's get you out of here, Cara."

* 

Haven is, to put it simply, a hot mess. And I don't say that lightly. 

There are at least a hundred civilians here. It's barely even a town, and it has no business acting as a military base of any kind when it's sad wooden walls couldn't keep out a determined bear. But I don't have time to ask about the reasoning behind that. All I know is that I should probably get to whatever safety Fione promises before the pain rushes back. Fuck if I know how that spell works. 

"Get to the Chantry!" Soldiers yell over the panicked masses. It doesn't look like anything's burning, and I don't hear any sounds of battle. Yet. So far, so good.

Soon the two of us are both just another pair of feet in the sea of people. It's strange to run with the feeling in my feet dulled like that, but I manage. Fione keeps me anchored, leading me in the direction of what I can only assume is this Chantry they're talking about. After a few twists and turns, we reach the crest of the hill and reach what looks like… a church.

Wonderful. I'm gonna die in the house of some God I don't believe in. Not much different from back home, probably. Seems like uncaring Gods are some sort of constant in the universe.

The thought goes as quickly as it comes and I nearly miss it. As soon as I try to picture what the word _home_ looks like, my mind fizzles out. Great. Maybe it's brain damage. I wonder if Fione's pins and needles can fix _that_. 

Fione tugs me to the side right before we enter the massive double doors of what seems to be the only truly solid structure in the whole town. Maybe I was _too_ optimistic. If this is the only place with stone walls, we're well and truly fucked.

The crowd parts for Fione like she's some kind of God. Maybe it's a church dedicated to _her_. Wouldn't that be something.

"Dorian!" Fione addresses one of the men ushering people through. He's sporting a spectacular mustache and what looks like… robes? Except there's only one sleeve. They're a vibrant sort of green, and… is that a _staff_ on his back? 

I don't get to ask. Fione releases her grip on me and closes the man's— Dorian's — fingers around mine. She looks at him with the same fervor she does the others. An unspoken order. "This is Cara. You are to keep her safe and not let anyone harm her. Do you understand?"

Their relationship feels different. He's not her subordinate — not in the same way, at least — and he nods in a casual sort of way that almost makes me forget the entire town isn't running for their goddam lives. 

"Of course," He answers, easily, voice an easygoing droll, "Do be careful, would you?"

Fione nods her head once, sharp, and checks to make sure I'm secure in his grip again. 

"Always."

With one last look at me, she rushes over to a stack of nearby crates and grabs a staff of her own before rushing back in what is decidedly the wrong direction to evacuate. Her feet fly with an ease I can only guess means she's used to running headlong into deadly situations.

Dorian keeps his word, at least, and holds on tight as he leads me into the Chantry himself.

"Come on, then. I'm sure you've got some truly _fascinating_ things to tell me."

*

Fuck me. I'm fucking _cold_.

Even with the solid walls of the Chantry around me and the compressed body heat of at least a hundred people huddled in here, I'm still _freezing_. It's like my body has never felt so much as a chill in my entire life.

It doesn't take me long to recount my meager memory to Dorian. The concrete bits, anyway. It's only roughly half an hour, after all. Everything beyond that is fuzzy in a way that makes the rubber band tighten again.

He gives me a waterskin, at least. That's the dehydration taken care of.

"That's _all_ you remember?" Dorian still sounds incredulous, but I have a feeling it's mostly for show. Maybe a ploy to get me to dig something out of my brain.

"I'll remember more when it doesn't feel like my teeth are about to fall out." As if to accentuate my point, the aforementioned teeth chatter comically. I thought that only happened in cartoons.

"You whine worse than me, and that's _saying_ something. Are you sure you're not from Tevinter? I'm sure I've heard your darling accent somewhere up North."

"I _told_ you," I grit out, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, even though I know it's a futile gesture. At least I'm in a chair. Small victories. "I don't know what Tevinter is. I don't know what _Thedas_ is."

"We can piece your mind back together once we are someplace safe. _If_ we do. I'm not sure what our dear Herald's plan is; I sure hope it doesn't involve simply waiting for the dragon to leave."

"Dragon?" The flash of wings in my vision comes back, clear as day. Dark wings, dark promises. "You saw it?"

"An old friend of yours, I take it?" He shifts his weight, and I realize he's always standing in a way that makes it easy for him to grab his staff at a moment's notice. "I heard the soldiers whispering rather loudly about it. Seems your vision was accurate in that regard."

At least the civilians seem to give a wide enough berth, though I'm not sure if that's my doing or his, based on the way they're looking at us both warily. Maybe everyone's too self-centered in their panic to spare a glance at the poor little amnesiac stranger their Herald's taken a shining to.

Is an hour even long enough for gossip to spread? Must be. I know what small towns are like with that shit. Or do I? Cue the fuzzies. Might as well get well-acquainted, because it seems like I'm never escaping this headache.

Someone approaches us — I recognize him as the other elf that loomed over me in the prison cell — and I square my shoulders. No use showing weakness. Might as well hold my chin up high if one of the attack piranhas comes sniffing around. Fione isn't here to protect me, and I'd wager Dorian doesn't have that kind of swaying power around here.

I must look like a feral animal or something, because once he catches sight of my expression he slows his movements and wipes his face of all emotions. Terrifyingly pragmatic. 

"Are you well?" He asks after a moment. Not much compassion in his tone. Like an academic inquiry. Like I'm a little experiment he's collecting data on, and I might as well be, to be fair.

Still, It's an odd question, given the circumstances. Are any of us well? We're about to get eaten by a dragon.

"Well enough," I answer, carefully, "Fione did something that fixed up whatever the hell was broken. Seems to be holding up."

He nods, but from the way he knees in front of me he clearly doesn't trust either the girl's handiwork or my self-assessment. Typical. Men are like that.

The pins and needles come back. He waves his hand over my body slowly — hovering a respectful distance from my skin, never touching — in a way that feels less invasive than what Fione did. Less like he's moving things around and more like he's just _looking_. I don't know if I feel better or worse about that.

Magic then? He's got his own staff strapped to his back, though his is a lot more rustic than Dorian's. The three of them are wizards then. Witches? Magic users. What did he call me earlier? A _mage._ Whatever the fuck they're called here. I don't have the vocabulary to make sense of it all.

"You've been healed well," The elf concludes as he stands, and his energy slowly seeps out of my body, "Fione is a talented mage." 

_Liar._ I can feel the rubber band loosen around my head. He did something, judging by the renewed pins and needles in my ankle, but I'm not in any position to call his bluff. Not that he lied in a straightforward way, which just annoys me more. I barely remember the last hour. But that doesn't mean I can't be a little shit. I'm owed that, at least. 

"Do I get the pleasure of name now that you've poked around my internal organs?"

"Pardon my manners." He gives me a little bow, and I resist the urge to strangle him. Call it a gut instinct. "My name is Solas."

I try to smile up at him. It might come out as more of a grimace, but I don't have the energy to care.

"Pleasure. I'm Cara."

"Lovely," Dorian interjects, and I can already tell there's no friendship lost between the two, "We're all acquainted. Just so you know, my apostate friend, the Herald has tasked me to make sure no harm comes to dear Cara here. I'd appreciate your help should one of the more hard headed advisors come for her head."

"Of course," Solas answers smoothly, "I'm not one to support leaving innocents to the elements."

Hah. He must've heard what that redhead said, because there's a touch of snide in his tone.

"Merely relaying orders. From what I've heard, Cara has had quite the evening."

The Chantry doors burst open as more people enter. There's some shouting, arguing, though the words meld together in my hearing. Before the doors can be safely shut again, an faraway explosion seems to shake the foundations of the mountain itself, and it rattles me to my core.

 _Focus, you dumbfuck._ I force myself to stand and pay attention at the scene unfolding in front of me.

It's Fione. She's arguing with the sour-faced commanding officer that called me some sort of slur. Their demeanor is making a panic spread through the crowd, fear rolling outward in waves crashing against a rocky shore.

"If it'll save these people, he can have me."

That same fierceness. The burning in her heart. The Herald. I can see it as clear as the faded blonde of her hair.

 _No,_ I think, and I'm not sure where the desperation comes from. I can't trust her; she's given me no reason to, other than saving my life, and it seems this is the kind of world where saving someone's life comes with a lot of baggage.

She's powerful, in more ways than one. I have to remember that doesn't just fall into a person's lap.

There's more talk. The sentences don't reach my ears, but I hear bits and pieces. A mountain path, the voice of a dying man. Fione mutters something to the man and for a brief moment both of their gazes flit to me.

I resist the urge to shrink into myself. There's no reason to hide.

Fione grabs him by his arm, and says something to him with that steel in her eyes. Then she turns away and heads back into the snowy apocalypse. Once she's gone, the blonde man's voice booms as he turns away from the door and orders people to start moving. 

There's a moment of stillness while those around us process the words, and then the scuffling resumes. Like mice forced back into their holes.

"Seems the Commander has found us a way. Let's go then." Dorian muses. So the blonde man is called the Commander. I file that away into the broken filing cabinet of my memory. Everything since I woke up seems to stick, so I might as well cram it in while I can.

The crowd lets a young man in a wide-brimmed hat lead the way; he's carrying what seems to be a clergyman clinging on to the last tendrils of life, face battered and bloodied. We're all ushered into a basement where a wall opens up to a path wide enough to save us. To save us _all_.

The boy mutters under his breath, his voice an echo of something far away that I can't seem to pinpoint into one thing. 

"Help. He can help. Helping is what he must do, to atone, to piece back together what he tried to shatter." 

Dorian holds onto my hand, bless his soul, to keep me from getting washed away by the sea of frantic survivors. I try to estimate the amount of people going through the tunnel, but I'm too short to get a good look at them all. 

We're a wriggling mass of organisms, all working together towards a singular purpose. Cells in an animal not quite ready to give up. I hear it in the swell of collective adrenaline. _Survive._

The Commander comes up beside me with his ridiculous giant fluffy shoulder pads. Despite the pathetic lack of brain power at my disposal I somehow register his hand hovering somewhere above my back, not quite touching but the threat of it is there.

"Careful now."

The animosity I'd felt when he first looked at me is all but gone in his voice, replaced by a single-minded determination I can't help but admire. It's better than what I've got, anyway. At the very least I'm not arrogant enough to reject the fact that he's effectively saving my goddamn life right now.

"You're safe with me," He says, voice barely audible through the rush of blood in my ears, "I promise."

A shockwave goes through the rock around us, and for a moment his hand clamps down on my shoulder as if to protect me from debris that might come loose from above. He releases me just as quickly once the moment has passed.

That gut feeling again, a weird pull from somewhere not quite physical, tells me he's telling the truth. And with the mountain crumbling around us and the world falling to ruin, I can't see any reason he'd risk dying with a lie on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what im doing but ur welcome to come along for the ride
> 
> ps. this is a really self-indulgent mgit so it'll be a mix of the some of the heartwarming cliches with a bunch of twists and turns along the way. so hope u can stick with it!
> 
> pls comment im new to this dragon age thing and id love to hear from yall


	2. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara wakes up. Naturally, the Inquisition has questions.

What happens next comes in flashes. 

I don't remember when I blacked out, but it must've been sometime after we emerged from the mountain. I remember my feet sinking into the snow. Ahe string of curse words I muttered as I was acutely reminded I wasn't dressed for this kind of weather. The adrenaline leaked out of me slowly, giving away to a cold so terrible it's a wonder it didn't leave icicles hanging in the hollow of my chest.

A thick woolen coat thrown around my shoulders. Arms going underneath my legs and I'm carried. I don't know who I have to thank, but they huddle me to their chest and keep the worst of the harsh winds away from my face.

I don't know if it was a hallucination, or a memory, or a dream, but a tug in my gut makes me open my eyes for a fraction of a second and I see Fione. Small, fragile, broken Fione climbing up the slope of a hill in a blizzard, clutching her side, hand glowing green. I try to call out to her but my mouth is sealed shut. I feel the world crumble just as she slumps over and crumples into the snow.

And then nothing. An inky blackness with no dreams, no images. Only a voice, spoken through the ages, crackling along the edges.

_ "Do take care of yourself. Spares rarely do."  _

I jolt awake in a tent. There are people asleep — or dead? — lined up around me, limbs bent in ways that maximize the meager space within the hastily built shelter. There's fur underneath me to separate me from the frigid ground. 

No immediate injuries. Legs ache, but that's to be expected. Count your fingers and toes, make sure they're all accounted for. You're in some fucking frozen mountains. Frostbite isn't out of the question.

_ One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.  _

It'll take some maneuvering to leave the tent, I realize. Upon closer inspection, the people around me  _ are  _ alive, their shallow breaths leaving small clouds of white in the air. At least whoever gave me the coat didn't take it back. After some strategic tiptoeing, I push open the tent flap and I'm greeted with a simple campsite.

Wow,  _ fuck _ these jeans. The holes really aren't doing it for me in this weather.

There are at least a half dozen campfires scattered around what I can guess is about a half mile, but don't quote me on that. Somehow the snow's been melted away from the packed earth of the mountain, and I'm thankful I don't have to trudge through a foot of slush to find the nearest fire.

Dorian. That's right. It takes me a few steps to realize he's sitting on a crate, the familiar staff laid down next to him. Some of the people across from him must catch sight of me, because he turns once I've gotten close.

"The maiden awakens from her slumber," Dorian says, announcing my arrival. "Come now, you must be starving. Thought you'd never wake up."

"Who's your friend, Sparkles?"

A dwarf. In the back of my head I know this isn't the kind of dwarf I'd have in my world. This one is not human at all, with short limbs and a stout face and an easygoing but guarded smile. There's a weapon by his feet, and though it's unfamiliar he probably wouldn't hesitate to aim it at me.

"Our Herald's new friend," Dorian answers. It's a warning. Play nice with the new kid, because your boss will fuck you up if you don't.

I square my shoulders. Might as well pretend I know what the _ fuck's _ going on, if only to keep myself from becoming a target.

"Cara."

The dwarf grins as he spreads out his arms, and gives a small bow from where he's perched on his own crate across the flickering fire.

"Varric Tethras. Storyteller extraordinaire, at your service."

Varric points to the man next to him, and even I know when a round of introductions are about to start. I steel myself and pray to whichever God rules here that my memory cooperates.

"This here is Blackwall—"

A human man with a luxurious beard and far too many years in his eyes compared to the rest of him. He's on Varric's left, bowl in hand, covered in silver armor with some sort of creature emblazoned on the front. Is it a lion? With wings?

"Sera—"

Another elf, but nothing like Solas. A twig of a girl with a cheery enough grin who already looks halfway drunk. That's when I realize just how dark the night is, despite the campfires.

"And Iron Bull—"

I swallow down a gasp. I don't remember my world, but I do know there's nothing like  _ him  _ there. My eyes sweep over the giant man — with grey skin and wide shoulders and standing at least a foot taller than everyone else — and eventually land on the pair of horns sprouting from his head. There are no words for him in the language I know. Another failure of the vocabulary. 

An eyepatch is looped around his head and a single eye stares back at me.

" _ The _ Iron Bull," he points out, with a deep rumble of a laugh, "The article is important." And even then, his gaze never leaves me. He could probably snap me in half with a single look, and from the way he's staring he might. Behind his neutral expression I can see him weighing the possibilities. Whether I'm worthy of trust.

The elf — Sera, I correct myself — shoves a bowl of stew and a spoon into my hands with a lopsided smile. The warmth seeps some life back into my cold fingers. Maybe eventually I'll stop counting them, but something tells me frostbite is just one of those fears that's embedded into my soul.

"Merry band of misfits you got here," I say before taking my first spoonful. 

Varric snorts. "We're a real unique bunch."

Exhaustion visibly washes over the group. Despite his upbeat attitude, it's obvious even Varric's gone through hell and back through the last few days. That tends to happen when the little town you live in turns to ash.

Did they live there? In… what was it? Haven? Or was it just a base of operations for whatever's going on here? For whatever sort of army or community Fione was —  _ is _ — leading? 

Now that I'm awake and there's no threat of danger hanging over my head, it dawns on me that I still know absolutely jackshit about what's going on. Where I am, what their goal is, and  _ who  _ I am. Out of sight, out of mind in the most extreme sense. Nobody can ever tell me I'm incapable of going with the flow.

So naturally I force out the only question I can think of. Better start data gathering.

"Is…" I swallow down the anxiety building in my throat. "Is Fione alright?"

_ You know the answer, _ I hear myself think,  _ why bother to ask? _ Maybe a confirmation would be nice. Considering my current lack of information, it only seems right to solidify what I have. She didn't go through the passage with the rest of us. Something tells me she never meant to.

"They found her last night, pretty much half frozen into the ground," Varric answers, solemn, "Chuckles says she's stable, but should be out for another couple days. We're gonna be waiting a while."

"Chuckles?"

"The  _ other  _ elven mage you met," Dorian supplies, "Solas."

An image of Fione falling into the snow rises to the forefront of my memory. Was that… another one of those visions? Did anyone else see it? Regardless, they'd found her, and she was stable. 

That means the most powerful person fighting to protect me is out of commission for a while. Anyone could come up behind me and stab me and she would be none the wiser until my corpse was good and cold. Not at all reassuring, but there's nothing I can do it about it now.

At least the stew pushes back the chill that's settled over my bones.

Blackwall and Sera start debating over their last mug of ale — sounds like it's being rationed, either due to lack of stock or vigilance — while I slowly drain my bowl. I take it in deliberately slow, and murmur thanks to Dorian when he passes me a waterskin. It isn't until the water's gliding down my throat that I realize how utterly parched I am.

"Lady Cara." The voice comes from behind me and my spine goes ramrod straight. 

"Commander." I almost shoot up to my feet at the sound of his voice. Maybe I'm a little jumpy. Who can blame me? And how did he know my name?

Thankfully he walks into my line of sight so I don't have to snap my neck to get a good look at him. Seems like he's making the rounds and doing some sort of headcount. I can see the numbers clicking away in his head as his eyes sweep over every person around this single campfire.

When he looks me in the eyes, I'm not sure what emotion I'm supposed to be looking at. I might as well be staring right into a brick wall.

"Glad to see you're alright." Despite how earnest he sounds, his face doesn't betray him. He walks away — headed for the next campfire — before I get the chance to reply. 

"That there's Cullen," Varric says, and my eyes snap back to him. "But it seems like you've already met." 

I hadn't realized I was staring at him walking away. The rubber band squeezes at my left temple. Wonderful. Just when I was getting used to not having it be a constant nuisance.

Cullen. Commander Cullen. I commit it to memory and file away everything I have on him. Angry eyes, voice like gravel, called me an  _ apostate _ , whatever that means, though it clearly has negative connotations around here. Was the last person who spoke to Fione before— 

"I think Fione told him to protect me," I say just as the realization comes to me. 

"Sounds like a mission that's getting passed along," Blackwall says from behind the ale, "Heard Dorian got the same orders."

"Bit strange then, innit?" Sera snatches the mug back. "Considering last I heard you were tossed into a cell, bound and gagged and all that. Bet the dwarf here that Leli was just gonna shank you and be done with it." 

"Leli?" 

"Leliana. The Nightingale," Varric offers, dropping his voice to a whisper, "Red hair, terrifying eyes."

The woman standing just outside my cell flashes in my mind. Her voice echoes in my limited memory, ringing clearer than anything else.

"I think she _ did _ want to leave me to die," I say, matching his volume, "But… Fione stopped her. I don't— I don't blame her, really. I wouldn't trust me, either."

"Must be something special about you then." Varric smiles, though there's something in his eyes I can't quite place. This is a man who knows how to lie.

"Dunno 'bout that."

A familiar head of cropped dark hair appears behind Varric, and the Seeker's eyes bore holes into my skull. Clearly it's not a friendly visit.

"Lady Cara." 

"Seeker Cassandra." Varric says, and the way she sneers tells me they're not exactly the best of friends. Her name is Cassandra. Filing that away. "I see you've met our new friend?"

"You're wanted with the council once you've finished your meal." It's an order, and not one I can refuse. "We have some questions for you."

I nod, not trusting my words, and she turns and heads back the way she came.

No Fione to hide behind this time. Not that I had much of a choice before. Still, it's a smart move. Hit me while I'm vulnerable, chip away at my hard outer shell of defenses until I crack. Find the meat inside, even though they'll likely find me hollow. Sounds like the kind of tactic I'd use on someone else.

I watch her as she goes. There's a large table covered in maps near the center of the camp, and just past it looks like a hastily made tent. It's comically large — surely not for sleeping — but I'm not gonna try and guess what their reasoning is. Maybe plausible deniability, in case they need to shank me. The Seeker stops just outside it, waiting for me.

Time to face the music. Dorian stands as I do, and loops an arm through mine to escort me the short distance. Nice to him.

As we approach, I can see several shadows dancing across the canvas, flickering in the candlelight. They argue in hushed whispers I can't make out the words to.

"For privacy," Cassandra explains, as she disappears past the tent flap.

"Do try not to get killed," Dorian says as he leaves me to my fate. Easier said than done.

When I enter, I try not to keep my face neutral. There are more people than I realize. Solas. Commander Cullen. The Seeker. Leliana, the Nightingale. And another woman I don't know. Everyone's heads turn to me, and the Seeker gestures for me to stand by a table on the other side. Away from the door. No escape.

They stand around me, like vultures circling their prey, just far enough that I know what I am: a threat. There's nowhere to sit down. 

It's Leliana who speaks first, the steel in her voice just as ice cold as I remember.

"Explain yourself."

There's no use lying. I'm not familiar with the kind of magic that exists here—aside from the healing—so there's no reason to believe they wouldn't be able to parse truth from fiction. Even if I  _ did _ have the reason or information to convincingly lie. 

Commander Cullen has his hand on the pommel of his sword, fingers clenched. One wrong move and I'm a goner. 

"I'm afraid there's not much to say. I don't remember who I am, how I got here, where I am, or what this—" I use my chin to motion to the semi-circle of people around me, deciding it's too risky to use my hands. "—organization is. All I know is my name."

Leliana thinks I'm lying. Her eyes narrow by a fraction, her eyebrows dipping for a second before smoothing back out. In my mind's eye, I can see her come to that conclusion as surely as I'd be able to see her take a step. 

"I hope you understand exactly why we um, find that quite hard to believe, my lady."

This woman has darker skin, pinned back hair, and hidden underneath a cloak is a dress of gold and purple that doesn't really match the climate. Finer than what her others are wearing, and the only one aside from Solas who isn't wearing some sort of armor. 

Something about the address feels wrong, like I've never heard it before coming here. The rubber band comes back, though it's less of a squeeze and more of a reminder that it's there, stretched against my skin.

This really is the beginning of an interrogation, and something prickles in the back of my head as I wonder why my heartbeat knows how to keep steady. 

It's disorienting to know things without understanding why or how or where the information comes from. My body understands what's happening before I can catch up. 

"Believe me or don't," I say, "All I have to offer is the truth."

"Surely you don't expect us to believe that a mage just falls out of the  _ nowhere  _ and is conveniently without memories—"

"Seeker, may I remind you that I was present when she was found." The way Solas speaks is even and measured; he doesn't say it in my defense but rather as a matter of fact. "She was battered and unconscious, covered by the same energy that courses through our Herald's hand, right underneath a rift. But she is no demon, no spirit, and while certainly a mage she's not someone any of our allies from the rebellion recognize."

Demons. Spirits. None of that rings any bells. The God of my world must have quite the sense of humor to stick me somewhere so fundamentally different from wherever home is. Must be hilarious watching me squirm. 

_ Focus.  _ Mages. Mages in a rebellion. Based on the way the words  _ mage _ and  _ apostate _ are treated like filthy words, it's reasonable to believe that mages aren't treated very kindly by society. Figures. Humans are all the same. 

"An unknown apostate who thought she could handle a rift on her own and overestimated herself. A Circle escapee?" Cullen theorizes. Still don't know what exactly the fuck an apostate is. A subcategory of mage, but what's the distinction? And what's a  _ Circle  _ and why would a mage escape one?

"Unlikely. With no staff, unusual clothes, and seemingly no training."

"What do you know of magic? Can you confirm that you are a mage?" The Seeker asks, turning back to me.

Thankfully fire doesn't just spring out of my hands that very moment. Seems like the kind of prank this God would play on me.

"Before Fi— the Herald healed me, I'd never seen magic before. I cannot confirm or deny that I am a mage, as I've never performed any sort of magic myself. I only know what you've told me."

"A completely untrained mage." Cassandra crosses her arms, glancing around the room. "Shouldn't her magic have manifested itself by now?"

"There's also the matter of her vision," Leliana's eyes never leave mine, like she's trying to dig into my mind herself. "You all saw it, did you not? The images, right before our eyes—"

"Right before it happened," Cullen admits, and it's clear the loss of the town is affecting him more openly than the others, "It was only a few moments before we'd already known, but a few minutes are nothing to scoff at when it comes to situations like this."

Solas nods, and it's clear he'd seen it too. They all saw it then? More information to file away. If it ever happens again, whoever is in the room with me can corroborate my story, or at least know that I mean what I say. Was my vision of Fione in the snow—because I'm sure that's what it was now—seen by anyone else? Maybe they'll know what to make of it better than myself.

"While we stand here arguing," the Seeker interjects, "The fact is that something must be done with this woman. We cannot leave an untrained mage to wander around camp."

_ "What fools they all are. Show me I was not wrong to trust you." _

Trust. It feels like strategizing, matching their speech patterns and speaking without weakness, trying to give them what they need without deceiving them. I have nothing to lie about nor anything to lie with. No reason other than my survival. It's not about the truth; it's about trustworthiness. Leliana will lunge at the first opening I leave, and I owe it to Fione to at least stay alive long enough to see her wake.

"Regardless of whether I know who I am or not, the fact of the matter is I owe you my life on more than one occasion." My voice does not falter. I level my eyes at every person in the room and allow them to pick me apart. "I do whatever you order me to, but I can promise you that I am not a danger to you or anyone here. I am no warrior."

And then finally, I hold Leliana's gaze. I feel her scrutiny grip me, as if her fingers were circling my neck from across the room, trying to see if I'll break.

After another moment of silence, she smiles. 

"If you are a spy, then you are either a very good one, or a terrible one." 

I'm feeling brave. The fact that there's a voice in my head might have something to do with that. I counter, "If you truly believed me to be a spy, I would already be dead. Clearly the Herald's word means something here."

"She's right."

Solas. Oh Solas. No matter how much his behavior strikes me as prickly — just another one of those gut feelings — it does seem like he's here to advocate for me. Something tells me the fact that he's a mage himself might have something to do with it, but I doubt it ends there. 

"This is a pointless discussion without all the facts," Solas points out, "The Herald mentioned seeing the girl in her dreams. Whether this is the work of a demon, Andraste herself, or something else entirely will depend on what she can tell us."

"What do you propose she do in the meantime?" Cullen demands. 

Twiddle my thumbs? Sounds like the kind of thing someone would say at the end of that sentence. Maybe it's something I used to say a lot.

"I will train her," Solas says, and I still can't extract any sort of emotion from his voice. Tricky man. "She may be harmless now, but it's dangerous to leave her as she is."

Cullen sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Now on that we agree." 

What did I think when I first saw him? Something about always looking like he's bitten down on a lemon? Maybe if he spends enough time in my presence I can make that reality.

A compromise seems to have been reached. The people in the room — Are they a council? Leaders? Congress? Who knows — look at each other for a short while. A sort of silent conversation I'm not privy to. Then Leliana addresses me again. 

No matter how many times that gaze is directed at me won't change the fact that Varric is right: she _ is _ fucking terrifying.

"You will earn your keep. We cannot waste an extra pair of hands, especially now." An edge of sorrow in her voice, like the less focused she is on my situation the rest of it comes rushing back. "You get one chance. Squander it, and I will personally see to it that you disappear."

Disappear. That's a nice way to put it. Frozen and dead in a ditch somewhere, more like. Thank god I won't be here when they have to explain to their Herald what happened to me. 

I nod. 

"Understood." 

Leliana turns to the elf. "Solas, please accompany her outside and call Dorian."

Solas gives a small bow, and gestures for me to follow him. "After you, my lady."

Right before I turn to leave the tent, I see Cullen's face twist up in annoyance. Again. Does he have any other settings?

"The Tevinter? But the Herald asked  _ me _ to—"

"Hush."

That's the last thing I hear before I duck underneath the tent flap and am greeted once again by the biting cold of the mountain. Does anyone know where exactly we are? Based on the maps, I figure that's something they've been trying to figure out. Does this mountain range even have a name? I never thought to ask, not that I've had much time to. That interrogation gave me a disappointing amount of information.

Solas doesn't speak as he leads me back to the same campfire. Good. Time to collect myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gang's all coming together! idk how often ill update but i have a good chunk of this written and planned out already sooooo yeah. 
> 
> pls comment if u enjoyed it!! i would love to hear from anyone reading this


	3. A Briefing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian explains Thedas, as best as he can.

Recap. What did I learn? First of all, I'm a mage, and untrained. That means I'm dangerous; I can only assume that means something  _ bad _ happens to mages if they're not taught how to use their powers. 

There's a social stigma against mages who aren't trained in the particular way they mean, which means there's a system in place for that. Cullen mentioned a Circle. Is that what  _ apostate _ means? Considering the way it sounds dangerous on their tongues I doubt it just means  _ untrained _ . 

It's also unusual to be my age and to not have shown signs of magic before. Not that I'd know if I have shown signs of magic before, considering I don't remember anything past the last few days. Magic manifests, which means I could accidentally shoot fire out of hands any second? I'm going to guess it's tied to emotions, so I hope nobody pisses me off in the meantime. 

How old am I? Am I allowed that information, rubber band, or are you gonna give me another headache? 

I feel it there, invisible but real, but the information doesn't come. Do they have mirrors around here? Maybe everything will come rushing back once I get a good look at myself. Would be an annoyingly simple solution, but I can't rule it out.

Second, I come from a place with no magic. No demons, no spirits, no mages, none of all that. Based on my interactions with Varric earlier, no dwarves, elves, or whatever the hell Iron Bull is either. That means it's only reasonable to assume I'm human, from a community of humans. Where do humans come from here? Do they come from a single place, and could I be from there? Somehow I know that's not right. 

Now that I'm looking over it all, I'm capable of gleaning more information than I initially thought. That's good, I guess. 

Third is that Solas mentioned he knows where I was found. Injured and near something called a rift. No demons, which means it must be something magical in nature. I'll have to ask him.

And finally, this dude is apparently going to train me. I can think of a million and one ways that can go wrong, but there's no use going over them now. Might as well accept what little victories I can get. At least he hasn't been openly hostile to me. Yet.

None of this is even counting the voice in my head. Surely that's not normal, but it doesn't show up very often. Only when I… need it. Or something. Ugh, here comes the headache.

"Lady Cara," Solas speaks up then, and I'm not sure if his voice is making my head feel better or worse, "Forgive the spymaster. She only has the Inquisition's best interests at heart. Not everyone is well-equipped to handle her prodding."

Spymaster. Leliana then. All these titles and pseudonyms are going to get jumbled up eventually but I know at least not to get  _ hers _ wrong. And Inquisition. That must be the name of whatever organization this is or whatever the head honchos up there are called. Thanks, Solas. 

"I understand. It's just—" The word gets caught up in my throat and I blank on what I meant to say. Strange? Stressful? Overwhelming? Absolutely shit-your-pants terrifying?

I never finish the thought. Apparently I've been thinking long enough for Dorian to finish his chat with Leliana. He walks over to us in a way that makes me think very few things can scare him as well as she can.

"Apparently I am to watch over you, purely based on the Herald's orders. They weren't too pleased about that, as you can imagine."

I snort. Yeah, they definitely weren't. 

Solas watches the two of us with that same blank expression again. It's starting to piss me off; nothing is more annoying than a man you can't read. But then he says, "We can discuss the matter of your training another time. If you'll excuse me." 

And then he walks away, without bothering to look back at me. Just how trusted that guy is around here? Certainly being dressed like a hermit didn't help his reputation. He didn't look like he was of any rank here, yet he was in the room with the rest of what looked like those in charge, and they heeded his advice. Is it because he knew about me? About the Herald? Maybe being the magical expert allowed him these eccentricities. 

"Training?" Dorian grabs my hand and places it in the crook of his elbow, leading me away from the mess that was the chain of command. I wasn't sure where he was taking me. Not back to the same campfire, certainly. "Is there something you're withholding from me, my dear?"

A couple of… servants? That feels wrong to say. A few  _ workers _ rush past, but nobody at camp seems to pay us any mind. Thankfully the coat around my shoulders is doing a good enough job of hiding the fact that I'm dressed absolutely nothing like them all, what with my jeans and hoodie in the middle of all these robes and breastplates.

Why is that? Clearly it means clothing is drastically different where I'm from, and that I'm probably due for a change of clothes. How long have I been wearing this outfit anyway? Two days? Three days?

And once again my head pounds harshly against my skull as it decides not to tell me. Fine then. Keep your secrets.

Wait, right. Dorian asked me a question. Better get on that before he starts to question whether there's more wrong with my head than a small bout of memory loss.

"I am… uh, apparently a mage?"

Shock colors his features, and he doesn't even try to hide it. Can mages not sense other mages? Is that a thing? Solas could tell I was a mage, and so could Cullen. I certainly wouldn't be able to tell, but then again I'm not the most knowledgeable person about, well, anything right now.

"Fascinating. I had figured as much, but I didn't want to assume." Dorian shakes his head, patting my fingers with his gloved hand. "You know how finicky people can be about these things."

"No, I don't."

"Pardon?"

"I don't know, actually," I hurry to say, feeling the frustration start to creep up my gut. Not knowing shit isn't fun. "Memory loss? Right?"

"Of course. How ironic of me to forget." We pass by Varric's campfire as he speaks, and I can practically feel all of their eyes follow me as we walk past. Awkward. "You and I are going to have a little chat. We can't have you waltzing about without any prior knowledge of Thedas. That's just asking for you to get your head chopped off."

My hand flies to my neck. Reflex. 

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll make sure that pretty head stays on your shoulders. Now come."

We stop, and I realize he's led to a tent. Is it his? He holds the flap open and gestures for me to enter, so I do. Doubt he can do anything in there is worse than what Leliana's gonna do if I mess up. And if I'm going to get answers without anyone looking at me like I'm some raging lunatic, it'll be in private. 

Dorian might tease me, but he doesn't seem like the type to withhold information or lie for the sake of being cruel. That's something, at least. If I'm going to be stuck here, I might as well trust  _ some  _ people.

Or one person, at least. 

It's cozy in his tent. Just a bedroll and his pack and nothing else. Obviously no one had the opportunity to bring many of their worldly possessions, if they had any in the first place. Dorian strikes me as wealthy, but none of that affluence is reflected here, clearly, considering Haven was likely not where he really  _ lived _ .

He sets his staff down and then sits at the head of his bedroll. Then he pats the space in front of him, so I do as he says. I hug my knees close to my chest, hoping to trap all my body heat under the coat, and face him.

"As lovely as it would be to jog your memory with Varric's stories, Leliana imparted to me that the subject of your memory is strictly, well—"

"Need to know?" I ask, "Do you use that term?"

"Indeed we do. They hope to prevent any, ah, unsavory rumors from spreading. It is up to me to mold you into a proper well-informed citizen of Thedas, as it were." Now that we're here, I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he figures out the fastest way to brief me on… everything. I take it he's never had to teach someone about Thedas from the ground up.

After a moment, he waves his hand and I feel a small gust of wind erupt from the movement. It's not the same as the pins and needles; this one hums, just a little bit, if I listen close enough. It drapes over us like a blanket, lingering in the space around us.

"A simple muffling spell," Dorian explains, "You need not worry about anyone overhearing. The walls are quite thin, as you can see."

"Magic." I try to contain my wonder, but it must show in my face, because he smiles a little proudly.

"You'll be able to manage it yourself, in time." He leans back, and then tilts his head at me. "Now, I realize you must have some burning questions. Ask freely, while we have time. I will answer to the best of my ability."

The first thing he tells me is that I was asleep for two days. Seems a bit overkill, I tell my wretched body, but if the alternative is suffering in this cold then maybe it was for the better. Being unconscious is decidedly better than spending every other second worried my fingers are gonna fall off. At the very least, Dorian assures me that my injuries have healed. 

This is my chance to gather as much information as I can before the walls start really bearing down on me. Eventually morning will come, Fione will wake, and I have to maneuver this world without a babysitter.

So I ask to my heart's content.

If my endless questions start to grate on him, Dorian never shows it. I work through all the information I've stored since I woke up in that prison cell. What's an apostate? What does "Herald" mean, exactly? Who is Andraste? What does the Inquisition  _ do _ ? What exactly are Rifts and why are they related to demons? Who are your leaders? Why are mages treated like this? What's a Circle? Where are we, what country is this, and are there others? What other humanoid races exist in this world? How common are dragons?

He explains succinctly, patiently, and with a humor that I can only describe as spectacular and sharp as a knife. I may not remember much, but my mind and my body certainly remember the kind of things that make me laugh, and Dorian slots into that space perfectly.

When I ask about Fione, Varric, Cullen, and every other name I remember, his eyes seem to shine. Ah, I should've figured he'd be a gossip. A man after my own heart. 

There's no holding back on that front, it seems. Now that we're away from prying ears, I can at the very least get his read on everyone without them being like, two feet away. He's more than happy to oblige, giving me details and explaining friendships (or the lack thereof, in some cases) between the people of the Inquisition. Often he'll preface something claiming it's all speculation, and then relay gossip so salacious that I'm sure it can't possibly be true, but we giggle all the same. The information's all messed up in my head, having been poured in without abandon, but I make an effort to pin it all down. 

Apparently Tevinter doesn't have a very good reputation in this part of the continent. It certainly explains exactly why Dorian was so willing to take in the stray. Outcasts gotta stick together, even here.

"Shouldn't you—" A yawn stops me in my tracks, my own body betraying me. It was already dark when I woke, and that feels like hours ago. He doesn't even seem  _ tired _ . "Don't you need sleep?" 

Dorian waves me off. 

"Oh, don't bother. Nobody can even think about sleeping while the Herald heals. You do realize we've just escaped a dragon attack by the skin of the teeth, yes? The situation doesn't lend well to sleep. You've caught the Inquisition at a bit of a tough spot, I'm afraid. It's like every poor sod here is holding their breath."

Fione. I've been so focused on getting information out of Dorian that I completely forgot about checking on her. The thought of her alone in her dreams for so long—especially with what I'd just learned about the Fade and mages—makes me wonder just how dangerous they ( _ we _ ) really are, or how much of it is propaganda. 

"So am I." The memory of her smile comes rushing back, and all at once I realize just how much I owe her. "I need to—" 

"I'm getting the feeling that there's something you're not telling me," Dorian points out, "Not that I blame you." I blink at him for a moment before I realize what exactly I  _ had _ been withholding. How could he have possibly caught that?

"Fione said she saw me in her dreams," I reply immediately, "Does that mean something here? I mean, with the Fade and all."

"Ah, yes." Dorian purses his lips. "It's no wonder Cullen seems too eager to smite you. Have I told you about Templars, dear? Seems only right that I do."

Cullen? The Commander? Smite? Whatever that is, it doesn't sound pleasant. And I'd heard the word Templar but my mind was running too quickly to latch onto it considering the breadth of our conversation. Something to do with the Chantry. Here I thought Cullen's sword was more than enough of a threat.

As Dorian explains the concept, my eyes go wider and wider, all thoughts of sleep abandoned as he lists horror after horror that Templar do to Southern Mages in the Circles, and more recently in Kirkwall and the Mage-Templar War. He claims not to know much of the details for what truly instigated the conflict, but he's heard enough to tell me it was likely the Templars' bloodlust for mages. And then the Conclave, and what it took.

And Cullen, the Templar of the Inquisition. He'd apparently left the Order to lead the Inquisition's armies, but that doesn't tell me much. 

When Dorian tells me they'd accused Fione of causing the explosion at the Conclave, pity pools at the pit of my stomach. No wonder she was so willing to hear me out; I'm another stranger found alone in the snow.

"Seems like I have more than the spymaster to worry about."

"Don't worry about that, darling," Dorian reaches over and pats my cheek with, dare I say, a bit of affection. "With a pretty face like yours? They'll be eating out of the palm of your hand, in due time."

Any other girl might've swooned, but I get the distinct feeling that Dorian's flirting is all bark and no bite. I couldn't tell you how; maybe something in my subconscious just knows. 

So instead I sigh, and for the first time since waking I feel the fatigue grip at my bones so strongly I wonder if Dorian sees my entire body visibly sag. 

"I wish I could believe you."

"Now, how about I get you someplace of your own to sleep?" Dorian says, catching the way my shoulders droop. Either this man is already far too good at reading me or I'm transparent as freshwater. "As much as I appreciate a good cuddle, I doubt you'd be satisfied with sharing a bedroll with me."

When he stands, he holds out his hand for me, and I take it. There's barely enough space for him to stand. He towers over me, and the canvas over our heads threatens his modestly styled hair.

"Thanks, Dorian." I hope the smile I give doesn't look too pathetic. "I owe you."

"It was my pleasure, Lady Cara." He smiles back, but it's clear the night's weighing on him as well. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever see a smile not laced with sorrow. 

The quartermaster is awake, thankfully. It takes some convincing from Dorian for her to cough up an extra bedroll, a blanket, and a new set of clothes more suited for the weather. He even manages to get me a pair of boots. Once we break camp and head back into the snow, apparently my sneakers won't be enough. I don't argue; I plan on keeping all my toes.

After all his prodding she looks just about ready to stab him, but we manage to leave with the basic necessities for travel. As I take stock of the supplies in the pack, I become incredibly aware of all the dirt and grime clinging to my skin. I was a little bit cleaner when I woke up in the infirmary—the thought of someone washing me while I slept makes me shudder, but it's not like I can do anything about it now—but even since then I've accumulated enough dirt to bother me.

Somehow I knew I wasn't used to being grimy and filthy back home. Was I noble then? Some hoity toity lady who lived in some manor who could afford to clean herself with hot water every day? But the thought fit wrong. That can't be it. 

There's that rubber band again. Whatever qualms I have about my cleanliness can wait until tomorrow. 

Dorian helps me get settled in his own tent; it's big enough for the two of us side by side. When he leaves, I give myself the fastest wipedown I can manage, my teeth chattering all the while. Then I change into the fresh set of clothes. The fabric is scratchy on my skin but it's an improvement. Warmer too.

Once my own clothes are stuffed to the very bottom of my pack, I lay down in my bedroll and drape the fur blanket around myself. I'm still fucking cold, but it's better than nothing. I close my eyes, and surrender to oblivion.

Sleep comes easier than I expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones a bit shorter, chapters will prob get longer and updates longer in between as time goes on
> 
> anyway, dorian is a gem, as he usually is. comments are appreciated!


	4. Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic is harder than it looks; Cara learns this the hard way.

With my mind empty of what's supposed to be in there, I figured training would be a piece of cake. Absorbing other information was already going well—it's not my memory storing process that's broken, at least—so spells? A few magical fundamentals? Easy. Cake.

I was wrong. So, so very wrong.

It was clear from the very beginning that Solas was no teacher. He was more like a lecturer: sit there in silence and listen to him speak, and don't you dare fuck up.

Unfortunately for him, I fucked up. A lot.

Based on the short bit of gossip Dorian told me, Solas was some hobo apostate who had never met another person before coming to the Inquisition and thus didn't know how to handle being among living non-spirit folk. 

Logically, I knew it was an exaggeration. He seems to get along fine with most people he speaks to—he was civil, pleasant even—but something about the way he pushes his lips into a thin line the fifth time I fail to conjure up a flame in my hand makes me think spending so much time in the Fade did his patience for incompetence no favors.

But then again, I also did fail to turn water to ice a dozen times before that. Maybe the elements have a problem with me.

I must look like an absolute mess, really. Not that I've spent much time caring about how pretty I look, but some instinct in me tells me it was something I valued, at least a little bit. My sweat is freezing on my skin, rogue strands of my dark hair come loose from my bun and are blocking my line of sight every time I exert myself too hard. Cheeks are probably flushed to hell and back. Even just lifting a basic metal staff makes my arms ache.

My life must've been dreadfully sedentary. Dunno what that means about my world, but it's not helping me right now.

That's not even taking into account the revolving door of babysitters that have been foisted upon me. Despite the fact that we're some ways away from camp—supposedly to ward off prying eyes—people seem to take great pleasure in watching me fail miserably. 

The fact I'm busy doesn't give me the chance to take proper stock of who comes and goes, but I catch some of them in my periphery. Attempting to cast is taking up most of my concentration, but I can tell when I'm being watched. Leliana drops by once, arms crossed and eyes hard. Cassandra shortly after her, though with those brows I'm unsure if she's capable of any other emotion except anger. Varric twice, and he at the very least has the decency to announce his presence and shout some encouragement. 

Cullen passes by a total of five times, each time pretending to want something from the soldiers doing the rounds nearby or pretending to care about the cargo stacked at the edge of camp. After the second time, he leaves a Templar to stand guard. 

The poor sod. I wonder if the random Templar feels any sort of pity for me. I must seem pathetic, even by Thedas standards.

Solas' nose crinkles as I feel my magic sparkle on the tips of my fingers and then fizzle out just before the spell has a chance to manifest. Again.

"You are far too powerful to be floundering like this." 

At the very least his impatience was showing through in his tone. After a full afternoon of him keeping his face neutral and his voice vaguely encouraging, it was almost  _ refreshing _ to see him show some sort of primal emotion. 

How does he even know how good my magic is supposed to be? Maybe it's a false positive. Maybe all I'm ever meant to do is make little sparkles dance on my fingertips. That'd entertain children, at least.

"Well, sor- _ ry _ , your greatness," I shoot back, sticking the end of the staff in the dirt. I am clearly a hypocrite for criticizing his impatience. "I know you sprung up from the Fade fully formed and capable of doing advanced spells, but I have never even  _ seen _ magic before this week."

It's a little risky sassing him, considering just how powerful Solas seems to be based on the way other people talk about him. Even though I'm not allowed to talk about my own… lack of background, I've been able to draw some stuff out of Varric. He's got the best gossip; even Dorian admits that.

Solas is here because he's knowledgeable in ways most mages in Thedas are not, and that terrifies everyone to some extent. It should, logically, terrify  _ me _ , but I'm too stubborn to feel anything but annoyance.

Not even taking into account the fact that he's teaching me. Pretty sure I learned not to talk back to my teachers as a kid, but I doubt any of the ones I had back home were this infuriating. Or bald.

Maybe it's only appropriate that I regress back into a snotty pre-teen when I'm learning shit that every prepubescent mage should know by that age.

The rumors around Solas have been interesting, at say the least. It's like he's some ghost that just showed up one day and could somehow handle the unknown magic in the mark on Fione's hand that no one else was familiar with. It was convenient, suspiciously so, but I'm no expert in magic. Probably not wise to take a non-magical dwarf's words at face value about it.

Either way, sketchy or not, Solas was getting on my last nerve. And I had a lot of nerves.

"I apologize." Solas switches back to it's irritatingly even tone. "I imagine it's much more difficult to learn in adulthood. Let's try something simpler." 

"And less deadly, hopefully."

He motions for me to follow him back to a dry patch of ground out of the snow, and sits down. I follow him, and we sit facing each other, about three feet apart. The staff balances across my lap well enough. 

"A basic ward," He says, and I gather that's some sort of shield, or barrier, "Imagine a wall coming up between us. As solid and sturdy as you can manage it."

I bite back a frustrated sigh and close my eyes. He's been trying to get me to imagine fire for ages and it hasn't worked, but who knows. Magic's weird. 

"I'm imagining it."

"Now harness the energy inside of you. Tap into it, and pour it into that image. Will it into being."

He means my mana. It sounds ridiculous, imagining the magical energy inside of me like I'm a cup full of blue liquid, sloshing around in there, but I do as he asks, to the best of my very non-existent ability.

That's when I feel it—it tickles just underneath my skin like an itch I'll never be able to scratch. Singing in my blood a melody I've never heard before, but it feels familiar somehow. It's sticky too, like it's seeping out of my pores in droplets like sweat, pushed through by sheer force of will and desperation and something else.

The air fizzles in front of me, but I don't open my eyes. I feel it, just outside of my reach, but it's like trying to push a blanket through the neck of a bottle. I squeeze my eye shut, and put so much effort into this one spell that my body begins to shake. Thank  _ fuck _ I'm sitting down.

The rubber band gets tighter and tighter around my head. I'm scared I'll have brain matter leaking out of my ears if I keep going, but I'm sick of Solas' disappointed sighs. I  _ push _ .

Another minute of what feels like agony goes by, and then another, and that's when it snaps.

When it finally comes loose I feel it in my teeth.

I brace myself for a vision, to be ripped away from this reality, or for my body to crumble, but instead I just feel a mild bout of relief. When I open my eyes, the sight of Solas ripples in front of me.

"Well then, congratulations, my lady. You've cast your first spell."

The swell of pride shouldn't come as a surprise, but I can't help myself. Something tells me I had a bit of a problem with learning curves, back where I came from. I don't know what my skills were, or how I got them, but I imagine it was a mentally taxing process.

At least now I knew I wasn't completely hopeless. 

_ "That's a good girl. Keep at it." _

*

The magic gets easier after that, by a fraction.

Well, the barriers at least. Everything else is still locked up in there, but Solas says it'll sort itself out. Eventually.

I've pulled the scarf through the bottle, only a little, but it's still stuck there. If I think about it hard enough I know I'm all corked up and ready to burst, and I think Solas is worried he'll be the only one caught in the shrapnel of my explosion.

He explains that eventually I won't be able to walk without feeling my power inside of me, churning until I have something to let it out on, prickling beneath my skin. How every moment between spells feels like holding a breath. I think of the word apostate and the hiding that requires—the fear and the terror and the running—and wonder how anyone could survive under the surface that long.

Solas draws sigils in the snow, explains what each line and symbol means in great detail, and I absorb it like a sponge put to water. Barriers cannot become strong on will alone; they have to be backed by magical theory. That gives me some comfort at least, to know I can get by with the help of determined study.

Unfortunately, the damned elf doesn't get any less infuriating. There's just something about him that brings out the contrarian in me, but I try to curb the urge to provoke him and give him lip. I succeed… for the most part.

By midday I'm completely spent, and will probably be incapable of moving much beyond the necessary walking. Dorian insists by the campfire at lunch that it's all perfectly normal for apprentices, and tries not to wince when I ask how old these apprentices usually are.

It's nice to know that my skills are progressing about as fast as a stubborn ten year old.

*

A woman who introduces herself as Lady Vivienne finds me just as I've finished my midday meal. Madame de Fer, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, she says, and despite everything I've learned that still means little to me, but it sure sounds important.

Dorian seems reluctant to let me speak with her alone, but acquiceses once I make it clear I have every intention of being polite, lady-like, and non-combative. Well, to the best of my abilities. I pretend not to notice him hovering just out of earshot, watching.

While the rest of Fione's crew seemed a bit more ragtag and world weary, Lady Vivienne was the picture of elegance and poise. Nobility and power exudes out of her tiny pores. I keep expecting to turn around and find her retreating into a gilded carriage like we're in some sort of fairytale. How she manages to trudge through snow in shoes that gorgeous, I'll never know. Would probably be weird to ask.

She stands in front of me, beautiful smooth dark skin and long eyelashes and pretty hands laced together in front of her. Her eyes very blatantly move up and down my body, as if scanning me for defects. It doesn't help that she's around the same height as Solas, which means she nearly has to dig her chin into her chest to get a good look at me.

I try to keep my gaze level with her. I wish I could say it made me feel more confident, but then I'd be lying. 

"Am I to understand that you are a mage who has never received any formal training before today?" Vivienne's voice matches her sophisticated image perfectly.

I nod sharply. 

"You are correct."

She purses her lips, just so. Even without memories I know what  _ that _ means. 

"And you are how old, my dear?"

_ Never ask a lady her age, Madame de Fer, _ I want to say, but that'd probably just aggravate her. I promised Dorian—albeit silently—that I'd be polite. No provoking the probably rich and well-connected tall woman, Cara.

"Somewhere between 25 to 30, give or take." I resist the urge to shrug, opting instead to hold my chin up high. "I have been told that this is… unorthodox."

"And quite dangerous, you do know?"

And just like that, her intentions are laid bare. Well, not intentions, but everything in her tone and her word choice implies that she's trying to gauge whether I'm some sort of dimwit. Or madwoman. Add Madame Vivienne to the mental list of names of people to avoid.

"In case the threats of my life weren't clear enough," I say, trying to keep myself from sounding _ too  _ sarcastic in case that pisses her off, "Several people have been kind enough to tell me in words, yes."

That placates her somewhat, I think, but her face is a little harder to read than the others. Likely a skill she learned while doing whatever it is Enchanters do in a royal court. Do they perform tricks for the amusement of their leiges or like, assassinations and shit? Who knows with Thedas. 

"Is there any particular reason why our dear Solas has been chosen to be your instructor?" Vivienne asks, and even without her tone giving it away I can tell they're not friends. They don't seem like the type to get along. "As I am aware, we have several senior enchanters from various Circles across Thedas, myself included, available."

I'd love to see those two go toe-to-toe, if only to watch them insult circles around each other without doing it outright. It'd be passive aggressiveness perfected to an art. 

"That's something to take up with the Herald, my lady." I give her a smile, as pleasant as I can manage. "I did not choose him myself."

"Would you have?"

Oh, she's great. It's like I can physically feel her fingers digging under my skin.

"Chosen him? I'm not sure. I've learned to make do with what I'm given. I find dwelling on what could've been a bit pointless." I keep smiling, and it's not that hard I realize. I must have experience, somewhere in my subconscious. "So far, he's the only one who's admitted my lack of training was dangerous without threatening to harm me."

Her smile is sickly sweet and well-practiced, her cheeks bunching and her perfectly sculpted eyebrows curving up. I wonder if that's what mine looks like. 

"Duly noted. I hope eventually you could consider a variety of instructors, if only for your own benefit." She places a hand on my shoulder, her touch feather light. I don't flinch. "I'm sure there is a world of potential in you, just waiting to be unlocked."

When I laugh, it's real. Guess it couldn't be helped. "Yeah, I dunno about that, but thank you."

She nods, and then turns to leave.

"Of course, dear." 

Dorian immediately swoops back in to rescue me from being on my lonesome, and I muffle the loud ass laugh that bursts out of me on his shoulder. God, I fucking hate it here. At least I know enough about my past to know that none of the strained pleasantries in my previous life came with the threat of violence. 

Treating every single person here like a murder's going to mess with my head in a bad way, but whatever. What matters is I survive, and so far, I have.

*

After I've regained some of my composure, I go to find Solas again. He's studying something, quill in hand, book open on his lap to what I recognize as some complicated magical symbols. Hopefully I haven't burned through all his goodwill just yet, because I need answers from him.

"Solas, can I ask you a question?"

The damned man doesn't even look up from where he's sitting.

"You just did, apprentice."

I resist the urge to groan and settle for crossing my arms. No use getting annoyed at him; I've spent too much energy resenting him today. Maybe tomorrow.

"Yeah, very funny. Didn't realize you were capable of making jokes."

He puts his books and papers away in his pack and stands, turning to face me with a guarded expression. It still annoys me more than it should that I have to crane my neck up to look at him. 

"What is it that you wanted to know?"

"You said you were there when they found me." 

"Ah, yes." Solas purses his lips, and invites me to walk with him. "I figured you'd want a full account."

We walk until the light of the campfires have all but faded, and I bite down my tongue to keep from cursing him again. Fucking cold fucking feet. He leads me to a single unlit brazier, far enough away. It comes alive with a wave of his hand. 

And then… he tells me. No catch, either, and I'm not sure why I expected there to be one. He just invites me to stand by him at a fire and speaks in a hushed voice as he recounts what happened.

I was found on the roads between someplace called Redcliffe and Haven, unconscious and injured, with nothing but the clothes on my back. Fione had wondered if I had been running from somewhere: a Circle, Templars, or something else. No one else in their little inner circle except Fione and Solas had been there, because they'd stayed behind to help some of their soldiers with some matter that required their attention.

When I try to draw out my own memory, hoping it gets dislodged by Solas' words, all I get is that god forsaken tightening around my head. It's no use. When I let go, my breath comes out fast, like I'd just spent a minute underwater.

It's exactly then that Solas casts the spell. He doesn't expect me to notice, I think, and doesn't realize that I do. There's just the flick of his wrist and the tingling of a spell draping over us. The same one Dorian used last night: a zone of silence.

His stupid face is doing that thing again—the one where he's got the most neutral expression on, unreadable, thin slips of eyebrows straight across his forehead—but it's not natural. It's deliberate. I've seen it enough by now to notice. He speaks in a way that tells me right away the underlying agreement to be made: this next thing is going to be a secret, and so help me God you  _ will  _ keep it.

Maybe not how Solas would've phrased it, but still.

"I will tell you something that I have withheld from the rest of the Inquisition, only because I truly believe you mean no harm," Solas then says, and I'd be flattered if I didn't know he probably means it in a I-suck-at-magic context.

He waits for me to respond. I nod, trying to look as solemn as possible. He probably doesn't think me stupid enough to compromise my own survival, but who knows.

"You did not fall from a Rift."

I blink at him. 

"What? Then where—"

Solas holds up a hand and I shut my trap. He continues, and it's clear he doesn't understand any of this any better than I do. 

"You fell from the sky."

The fucking sky. And if he said I didn't come from a rift, then it's clear that he and Fione had at the very least checked to make sure there wasn't one in the goddamn sky. Which means there's even less information on how I got here than I originally thought.

That's not comforting in the slightest.

"Why wouldn't you tell them this?" I ask. It seems out of character, based on the time I've spent with him.

"Because I promised the Herald I would not," He answers plainly, and I get it. "Unfortunately, she is not here to explain. As such, I cannot give you an answer for why."

That tells me nothing. Did they see me fall? Is that why I was so terribly injured when I woke up in the cell, or did I get beaten to a pulp in my sleep? Was the cell the first time I gained consciousness since arriving in this godforsaken country?

Someone keeps me from speaking all the questions running through my mind. My gut tells me not to trust Solas like this, not to show him desperation, and I'm too exhausted to argue with myself.

Maybe Fione will answer my questions.

So it goes. I stand.

"Thank you, Solas."

*

Without me possessing any discernible skills and the fact that I'm unable to remember what skills I  _ do _ have, I'm stuck doing menial work. Once I'm in less conspicuous clothing, nobody pays me any mind. Solas drops me off to help with the rest of the civilians. Cooking, cleaning, foraging, tending to the sick. All perfectly doable as long as I'm lucid enough to follow instructions. And I am.

I've just finished having an early evening chat with Dorian and Varric when the Commander approaches me on my way to Dorian's tent. Cullen. Whatever. Names are hard; I get the feeling we didn't have this type of chain of command back home.

"Commander," I greet. Resist the urge to salute him, or whatever it is soldiers do around there parts. I get the feeling I would've done it on impulse if I wasn't still scared for my life around him. 

After how closely he's been watching me, I'm not about to do anything to get on his bad side. It feels like he's just waiting for me to slip up so he can smite me or lop my head off or whatever it is Templars do to naughty mages who step a toe out of line.

"I'm to watch you tonight," He says, voice lowered so none of the damned gossips can hear him. It takes a few seconds for the words to really get past my ears and into my brain. 

"Wh-what?"

He says it as if he hasn't already been watching me all day. Maybe he got tired of the subterfuge. He seems like the type that doesn't partake in it very much and prefers the direct approach. I wonder how well he gets along with Leliana.

"We can't have you getting all your information from Dorian." Cullen rubs the back of his neck with a gloved hand. "Maker forbid what you'd think of us."

Pfft. 

Levity. If he's going to be joking around with me, I might as well give it a shot.

"Hah. That was almost funny."

One of his eyebrows quirks up, but he doesn't quite smile. God, I love a challenge. This guy is wound up tighter than a bowstring. Worse than everyone else here, maybe even Solas.

"Almost?"

He sounds just a smidge shy of disappointed. Or is he feigning it? Who knows. He starts walking somewhere, and I have to pick up my speed a little to keep pace with him. Stupid tiny legs. Why is he so fucking tall? It's ungodly. 

Maybe he  _ is _ going to kill me, but a girl has her weaknesses. He can't just make an almost-joke and not expect me to take it as an open invitation. Besides, I get the feeling that messing with uptight men was a very entertaining pastime for me, and who am I to deny myself the pleasures of home?

"I still don't think I've seen you smile once, Commander," I point out, "I know I've only been here two days but I don't think that's normal."

"I—" His mouth hangs open for a second, and then he shakes his head. Oh god, he's horrid at hiding his emotions. How did I not see it before? "There's not much to smile about."

Oh. Right. Shit.

Guilt makes my stomach clench something fierce. I have to remember that Haven existed for far longer to these people; it was their community, their home, even if for just a short while. I was there maybe two hours; who knows how long this guy's been there, who knows who he lost. 

Nothing sucks more than not knowing shit and subsequently putting your foot in your mouth because of it.

"I'm…" I pull myself together and duck my head away from the firelight. "You're right. I'm sorry."

He doesn't say anything after that. And based on the way my heart is twisting strangely, I get the feeling that I'm not used to apologizing to complete strangers. Or apologizing at all. Wonderful.

After some more walking, he stops in front of a tent. It's about the same size as Dorian's, if not a little bigger. Spatial reasoning is not one of my skills, I guess. And then he holds open the tent flap for me. Ass. At least make me feel less shit for hurting your feelings.

There's… not much inside. There's a pathetic little desk made of two crates and a slab of wood. A bedroll. Pieces of paper and a stack of books with a single half-burned candle. A second bedroll is pushed up against the edge of the tent, crumpled as if kicked away.

"Sit. I'll have someone bring you supper." With that, the tent flap closes and he disappears. I figure he'd be back soon, but there's still something hilarious about him saying he'll watch me and then immediately turning away and leaving me in a private space with what is presumably classified information scattered around.

Still, there go my plans to pull more information out of everyone. I was gonna ask Sera for more juicy details about shit that went down before I arrived. That girl seemed the type to hang from the rafters if it meant she got to overhear something. 

I straighten out the second bedroll and plop down. Does someone else sleep here? I wonder who his roommate is. Surely it's not Leliana.

When he gets back, he sits down in front of the crates — just as I expected — and then takes the meager stack of books and sets it down in front of me. I'd be lying if I said it doesn't surprise me.

"What's all this?"

"Books. It's what I managed to save. From Haven." He turns back to his desk quickly enough that I can't gauge his expression. "I figured there's no better way to learn."

It's unbearably kind, I decide. A bit disgusting, really. To think that this guy was seemingly ready to lop my head off himself just a few days ago or get me stabbed by a Templar earlier  _ today _ should alarm me, but the thought that I'm slowly easing my way into people's good graces meant maybe I wasn't a lost cause. That was something to celebrate, regardless of how much I trusted this heel turn.

There's that gut feeling again, pulling away my distrust of him. There's something eerily familiar about him, but the second I try to pin it down the feeling evaporates. Maybe I knew someone like him, wherever I'm from. Regardless, it's useless to linger without my memories. 

"Thank you." I pick up the book on the top of the stack and squint at the cover. Good, I can read. Would be a bit awkward if I couldn't. "I do love to read. I think. Yeah, I remember that about myself."

The thought of books loosens the rubber band around my head. Like my mind is desperate to toss out my old memories and make new ones. Leave the old world behind and embrace Thedas as my own. I push the thought away; that… doesn't seem promising.

"Well, I'm glad." He lets out a weird little cough, or clears his throat. One of those. "I have some work to do tonight, but you're free to read as much as you like or ask any questions you might have in the meantime."

The food comes quickly enough. A harried looking scout calls for him on the other side of the canvas and hands Cullen a bowl of stew before scurrying back off into the night. Beef and potatoes. I know because I helped peel the spuds earlier.

He hands it to me, and then turns back away. 

"Are you not eating, Commander?" An innocent enough question, I decide.

"I've, ah, already eaten. You go ahead."

A lie, then. I wonder if Leliana has ever told him that he's a terrible liar. Surely that's some sort of liability, considering he's one of their top-ranking officers. I can't imagine Josephine is too happy about that either.

It's an interesting piece of his puzzle. I slot it into place.

The soup is fine. It could use more salt, but considering we're lost in the middle of a frozen wasteland I don't think I'm in any position to question the culinary choices the cook is making. Should be glad enough that there are enough people who  _ can _ cook this well. Can't imagine soldiers' rations are much better.

When I've emptied the bowl, I set it aside and pick up the first book. It's a rather worn tome, with creases in the leather binding. The first page has "The Chant of Light" written in ornate calligraphy.

It doesn't take me more than a page to realize what this is.  _ The _ religious text. A little amusing to me how smoothly "chant" flows into " _ chantry _ ." Might be useful to learn though, that's for sure, especially considering the Chantry was the only solid building in Haven. If Dorian's explanations didn't prove how influential this religion was, that sure did.

Even better was the fact that what he decided to save—because that was his decision, I think—was the religious text. Surely they're not in short supply in this country. That's another piece of his puzzle, and it fit perfectly next to the one about him being a Templar.

I look back up at him. He's hunched over the papers, looking a bit comical considering he isn't even on a chair. His face is crowded by the massive furry beasts on his shoulders, his armor making it difficult to get any closer to his makeshift desk. His eyesight must not be horrible. Right-handed too.

The scar on his lip stretches across his cheek, and it pulls every time his expression changes. It's rather endearing.

He was pretty enough, I decided. It's the first time I've really had the chance to look at him when his face isn't screwed up in annoyance or disgust or some other deeply negative emotion. Nice jawline, stubble along his cheeks, and hair a pretty shade of blonde. Hazel eyes, and I can see the reflection of the candle flame in them. 

It's all very poetic, yada yada. At the very least my mind is kind enough to let me know that I'm attracted to men. Would have to get a good look at another woman to check the flip side, though.

Cullen's pretty little eyelashes flutter as he notices the fact that I haven't flipped a page of the book in a while. Drat.

I know I should probably look away before he meets my eyes but I don't. Maybe I'm braindead. Only possible explanation. He blinks at me for a moment before his eyebrows knit together and he turns back to the stack of papers in front of him. 

"Please—" He starts, trying to sound as assertive as he can, failing only a little, "Please refrain from staring at me." The tips of his ears have gone a little pink. Surely that's the cold.

If it isn't, then at least it's more information. Easily flustered church boy who can't lie to save his life and doesn't know how to handle a woman glancing in his direction. It makes more sense than I'd like to admit.

"Dorian told me you were a Templar," I say in lieu of a response. His back straightens, just a bit.

"I was." He pauses, and takes a deep breath. His long exhale is a cloud of white in the cold. "Not anymore."

"Found greener pastures elsewhere?" 

"It's… It's rather complicated." His forehead wrinkles, eyebrows pulling together further. "I'm sure there are more interesting things to learn than my life story."

A tough nut to crack then, this one. Not that I expected a stranger to spill his entire personal history during what is effectively our first conversation, but still. At least this kind of nut is predictable, unlike the Nightingale or the Seeker. Put too much pressure and he'll shatter. I test my luck.

"Unfortunately, I don't have a life story of my own at the moment. Might as well hear yours."

When he sighs, it's almost like I can feel the melancholy spill into the air. There's more to this church boy than meets the eye, it seems.

"Some other time." 

"Suit yourself." I let it go, and he visibly relaxes. "Let me figure out what this Chant of Light business is all about then."

Later, when his work seems to thin, I ask him to explain how people in Thedas measure time. He speaks with the authority of a career military man, like I'm a fresh-faced recruit still learning which end of the sword to grab, as he goes through the different ages of the Chantry calendar. He tells me we are in the 9th Age, Dragon, and that it is the 41st year. As an example, he admits he was born in the 11th year. I do the math in my head. 

When he lists each month, his voice goes a little nostalgic, matching each one with its respective holidays and changes in seasons. I get the feeling that if we were in any other place, or if I was any other person, he'd tell me more about the memories lurking in his mind right now. But I'm just some weirdo he's stuck with right now, in a desolate frozen wasteland, making do with what we've got. The wind seems to slam a little harder against the canvas walls of his tent, as if to make a point.

By the time he sends me to bed, his candle has burned down low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there goes my baby, all grown up and not killing anyone with her magic. they grow up so fast.
> 
> GONNA have a more regular update schedule after this i think!! every sunday (in my timezone, gmt+8), starting this sunday. lmk if yall would prefer any other days.
> 
> thank you so much for all the love!!! im having a blast writing this and your comments only encourage me. id also love maybe a very casual beta for this so if ur contact me [over here](https://sexyapostate.tumblr.com/) at my shiny new DA tumblr
> 
> as always comments are appreciated and loved!!!


	5. Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara deals with the inevitable. Fione wakes up.

The nightmares aren't new. 

Even without the appropriate memories to make the connection, there is a familiarity in the dread a nightmare brings. Like trampled grass off the beaten path of sleep; I don't remember taking the steps but I can see my footprints. 

The signs are there. Shapes that never fully form, darkness at the edges of my vision, and the feeling that I'm always just underneath the surface of my slumber. Another inch is all it takes and I'll jolt wake. 

But the Fade didn't exist in my world, and that likely brings its own set of fucked up variables.

Mages are dangerous, they've all told me. Naughty spirits trying to grab hold of me to sneak their way into the Waking world, hoping to wreak havoc and chaos and corrupt me along the way. Dorian warned me the same way one would tell bedtime stories; scare the good little apprentice mages well and they'll know to be good, as if the danger could be bypassed by a stuffed animal and a nightlight. 

But this is different, I have to remind myself, when my eyes open and I realize where I am. And, you know, logically, if this was going to happen either way, I'd rather it was sooner rather than later. I suppose it's better this way. Just more data to collect. 

I know enough to say I've never been much of a lucid dreamer, but I get the feeling this isn't the same. 

It starts out simple. Innocuous. A small desk in the center of a room. I couldn't tell you the color of the wallpaper, or the finish of the wood, but I know it's there. The tattered remains of a memory, forced past the blockage in my head. 

There is a strange metal object on the tabletop, shiny and smooth to the touch. I know it well, but I can't quite find the name. Even without my knowledge I know it's closed. I could open it, if I wanted.

I decide not to.

That's when it arrives. There's no true shape or form to it. A man, I suppose, if you had to call these wisps of black smoke positioned vaguely to look like limbs anything at all. 

Without many concrete memories it probably doesn't have much to work with. This is the best it could do. 

"You are strange, little one," It speaks, voice a thousand sounds at once, but crystal clear in a dream of shapes. "To think so highly of yourself, yet have so little. Tell me, what is the root of your arrogance? What right do you have to wield it as you do?"

I clench my jaw. 

"I don't need reasons to value myself." 

The smoke moves, circling me like a bird of prey. It smells faintly of soap, of lavender, of things I must've found tempting in my world.

"Touched a nerve, have I?" A single clawed finger draws a line across my cheek. "You are a pathetic reflection of what you claim to be. A mere fragment of the woman you were. Let me make you whole."

I want to walk away, turn and leave the room somehow, but my feet are planted to the ground as if turned to stone.

"I am whole," I say, but my voice trembles. "I don't know what you could possibly offer me."

The demon laughs, unrelenting and unabashed. Cruel.

"Simply the truth. The missing piece you seek."

"Leave me be." I close my eyes, but the feeling of it remains, twisting around me. Inferior. Powerless. "It's never that simple."

"You are empty, little one. Do not fool yourself," It declares, and my hold on my mind weakens. 

I feel the hollow echo in my skull and the swell of loneliness in my chest, so potent it springs tears into my eyes. These are facts I cannot even hope to deny, not in my current state. The smoke solidifies just enough to circle around my wrists, and my skin sizzles as it burns on contact.

And then, a sound in the darkness. 

Hands slamming against a table. A shining light spreads out from behind the figure, and then the demon dissipates as if blown away, dust in the wind. And in a split second I lurch forward, bracing for impact— 

My eyes snap open with a shake of my shoulders. 

Dorian's hands are tight on my arms, holding me just enough to anchor me to the Waking world. Despite the cold, my shirt is soaked through, and I still taste the lingering ash on my tongue.

I remember the dream with surprising clarity. That's not something I'm accustomed to, I explain to Dorian, and he sits with me in the dark as I try to process it all.

The threat of demonic possession, huh? They weren't kidding. Maybe Vivienne was right; I should find someone whose main strategies aren't 'Befriend every spirit in the Fade and hope you don't get unlucky.' Has Solas ever feared being possessed? 

Dorian gives me a quick rundown of what types of demons there are, and how they're likely to ask. There isn't much to be done by way of practicing how to identify them except through tedious study, and I suppose I can deal with that. I just wish it didn't take such a daunting experience for me to see just how crucial this area of study was. 

"It seems tonight the lovely inhabitants of the Fade have found a new toy," Dorian says, punctuated by a yawn, "Pity, I was just starting to grow fond of you. Don't get possessed. It will reflect badly on both of us."

"That's it?" I snap, "That's your professional, experienced advice for an apprentice mage? 'Don't get possessed'? I suppose I'll have to ask the demons nicely to just leave me alone."

I don't know where the anger comes from, but it deflates the second Dorian gives me _a look._

"Okay, fine, wasn't fair." I huff, glancing away and drawing my knees to my chest. "I'm _sorry_. Nearly becoming a midnight snack for a demon's left me a little snappy."

Dorian is sympathetic enough, but even his easygoing compassion and offers of comfort don't land well enough to shake the uneasiness that's settled in my stomach. Eventually he goes back to sleep, and leaves me with my thoughts.

The demon's voice floats just past the edges of my mind, its claws sunk deep into my subconscious. No demands can will it away, and it stubbornly clings onto me like a stray pebble caught in my shoe. 

_"You're better than this, child. Do not succumb."_

_Thanks a lot, weird lady,_ I think bitterly to myself. Maybe if she offered me some advice instead of vague orders and warnings I'd be able to actually do what she says. It's not like she's ever offered me anything beyond common fucking sense before. Real valuable insight, that is. 

Tossing and turning doesn't help, so eventually I settle onto my back and resign myself to simply waiting for dawn to break. Perhaps if I exhaust myself just enough, whichever God wants to listen will gift me a dreamless sleep.

*

The first thing I do the second the sun comes up is find Solas.

I try not to stomp around like a child throwing a tantrum, but sleep deprivation really does _not_ agree with me. My left eyelid twitches every thirty seconds like some sick reminder that this is my life now, might as well get used to it.

Luckily for the slippery bastard, he's still asleep when I find his tent. No use waking him up now; it'll just make me look terrible in front of everyone else, and I am not in the mood to damage control the hit my already fragile reputation would take.

So I sit next to Dorian and we eat breakfast. It's stale bread and leftover stew from last night. I apologize to him under my breath, vague enough that no one else asks, and he waves me off. No harm, no foul, apparently.

I imagine I'll be apologizing a lot more in the coming months, if I don't get this under control.

It's another hour before Solas is up and running, and I manage to bite down my tongue long enough for him to finish breakfast before I very curtly ask if I could speak with him in private.

He obliges, and I know he's smart enough to infer something's wrong. 

When we reach a secluded spot between two empty tents, I look up and find genuine goddamn worry on his face, like he _cares_ , even if just a little. I realize it's not hard to deduce what happened to a mage that looks distressed this early in the morning. 

"Last night, my dreams, I…" My throat feels thick all of a sudden, all my anger melting into a mild panic. "You did _not_ prepare me for that."

As expected, he doesn't need to be told. Just pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, frustrated.

"My apologies." Solas exhales, in the universal tone of it's-too-early-for-this-bullshit. "It slipped my mind yesterday, and that was a grave error on my part. My utmost priority had been to ensure your wayward emotions did not lead to you losing control of your magic."

I don't have the energy to be pissed off at him; it burned right through me, and now I'm just smouldering and exhausted.

So I just ask, plainly, "How do I stop it from happening again?"

Solas levels his gaze at me. I get the feeling I won't like the answer.

"Your will must be iron. It is the only way."

I look back up at him, and deadpan, "My _will._ "

"The Fade is controlled by your will. Spirits themselves can shape it as they wish; that is how mages like you and I experience it in our sleep. They are influenced by our emotions and craft dreams and nightmares for us in turn, and as such we can be susceptible to demons this way. In rare cases, mages can possess will strong enough to control the Fade themselves; they are called Dreamers."

It takes everything in me to concentrate on what he says and really process the information. 

"That's _definitely_ not me."

We both go quiet while the information sort of marinades. Thedas is stupid if this is what a good chunk of their population has to go through at night. You're telling me these people are socially discriminated against, prosecuted by the church, _and_ end up sleep deprived? And have to deal with the fear and guilt of being a constant threat to the people around them. Jeez. Cut them some slack, Maker God person. That's just not fair.

Solas' thinking face is endearing at least. All bunched up eyebrows and wrinkled forehead and eyes darting from one patch of snow to another.

"I suppose while you train, we do not have much of a choice." Solas tells me then, with a hint of remorse, "I may keep watch of your dreams, if you so wish. You are, after all, my responsibility."

I blink at him a couple times. These concepts are all so strange. 

"You can… do that? Just stand at the door, like some sort of guard dog?"

"In not so callow terms, but yes." Solas gives me a small smile, more sympathetic than anything else.

"I get the feeling you'll do it even if I ask you not to." Like I have any other choice. I just hope this doesn't mean I get to sense him there. I'd like to get some kind of break from him when I'm asleep, thanks. I already have to spend my days getting scolded by him for sucking.

"What matters here are not your desires." Solas sighs again. "It is the safety of the Inquisition, though I would prefer to have your consent on this matter. It will certainly be harder to protect you if you resist."

Naturally. Through it all, Solas is still here for a reason. _Everyone_ is here for a reason. The reason is not to help me navigate the new and confusing world that I just got dropped into; I'm just an unfortunate stowaway in this wacky ride to defeat Corypheus.

That's fair enough, I suppose. There's no reason for me to be having outbursts like this. It's childish and counterproductive, but I can't find it in myself to stop. Could probably use the sleep deprivation excuse again but even in my head that's already getting old. I suppose I don't take too well to having my agency taken away, with memories or not. I swallow my pride, and thank Solas. 

*

Fione wakes up that afternoon.

I know if it were up to Leliana, or to Cullen, or Cassandra, or anyone else for the matter, I would've had to wait another full day to see her. They'd fuss over her and her Mark and her bravery and give her enough pats on the back to last a lifetime before I could get my grubby little paws on her, or something. 

Maybe they'd even have enough time to advise her on what to do with me. Isn't that when Cullen called himself? Her advisor? I wonder if Leliana has changed her mind, or Cassandra. Or Cullen. Hard to imagine he'd still see me as the cartoonishly scary apostate who could snap at any moment after watching me mumble under my breath as I read, but then again I did spend a good chunk of that night staring at him. Maybe he's got a point.

No. What happens is Fione had demanded — actually _demanded,_ God help me — that I'd be the one to sit next to her while she slept. She wanted to speak to me as soon as she had the strength to do so. 

Can't imagine any of them are too happy about that. 

Mostly I'm surprised she's alive. After hearing multiple accounts of what happened in Haven while I was holed up in the Chantry and blacked out, I realized that Fione _shouldn't_ have been able to survive that. But she did, and most people had pretty much agreed it was a miracle. So I can't blame her if she wants to chase a few more hours of sleep. I'd want to too.

I'm only through only two chapters of the History of the Fifth Blight when she wakes up and is, surprisingly, perfectly lucid. As lucid as you can be, I guess, when you come back from the dead. 

"Cara."

Her round glassy eyes stare up at me as she moves to sit up. I'm no healthcare expert but even I could tell she's doing that way too fast. I reach over and put my hands on her shoulders, slowing her down. 

"Fione, are you alright?" I ask as I ease her into a sitting position. She doesn't look too bad, all things considering. 

"Much better than I was yesterday, I can tell you that much." She lets out a small chuckle, and then winces through a small bout of pain. Looks like the chill hasn't totally left her body. How much can healing spells actually heal? 

When she regains herself, she asks, "Have you been treated well?"

The corner of my lip quirks up. The phrasing is deliberate. She knows exactly what I got thrown into. From what I know, she was pretty much in the same boat, not too long ago.

"Well enough."

Fione groans as she drops her face into her hands. 

"Ugh, I was afraid of that."

"It's nothing I can't handle," I say, unsure exactly why I'm trying to reassure her. It comes out of my mouth before I can even think. 

"First thing next council meeting. If there even is one. They say I woke up this afternoon but I—" Fione bites the corner of her lip. "I woke up here and there. I swear they spent last night arguing my ears off. Felt like my head was going to explode."

The advantage of cozying up to gossips, I suppose, is that I know exactly what she's talking about. I heard about that yelling match. Something about their next steps, about finding out where they are. Morale dropping from keeping camp for too long, sitting ducks in the middle of mountains a dragon could easily fly over. The advisors weren't exactly being very discreet about it; Cullen's angry voice alone could probably carry a couple miles.

"I heard about that. The Inquisition is running around like a chicken with its head cut off."

Fione gives me a grim sort of smile. "We're not in the best shape right now, no."

That's when it strikes just how fragile Fione looks. I know she's a mage and the Herald of Andraste and all, but she's just a girl. Twenty-six at most, with bright skin and light blonde hair. Her lips are rather pouty, with a small divot in the middle of her bottom lip that makes it look like a peach. A dimple forms on her cheek when she smiles. And she has these earnest dark eyes that are so deep I could drown in them, just a hint of green. 

She's only a little bit taller than me, and after standing around a bunch of people that practically tower over me it's nice to be eye level with someone.

I'm not much older than her, I think. A few years. Real convenient for my mind to supply me with that information only now. 

And her magic. Have I always been able to feel the magic in other mages? Her skin is warm to the touch, like my blood is tethered to hers, reaching out, winding us together. Like her magic would fully wrap itself around me if it could. Does hers prickle underneath her skin like mine, dancing sparks along her bones?

Does she feel it too, in me?

Her facial tattoos start just underneath her eyes — leafless branches, or antlers? — and stretch across her cheeks and creep all the way to just above her ears. Like the wings of a bird, about to take flight. 

Oh. Yeah, I'm definitely attracted to women too. Better note that down, and also maybe tamp down those thoughts. Not the best time to entertain them. Pull yourself together, Cara. 

"I still… We should talk. About, you know, this whole thing."

Smooth. Like sandpaper on a boulder. With a grasp of language like that, I should start ghostwriting for Varric. 

"We probably should." Fione tilts her head to the side, and she looks a little sorry. "I imagine this is all very confusing for you."

That's not even the least of it. I wonder when I'll be able to get my own journal — based on my observations, paper was in a bit of short supply — so I could finally keep my thoughts straight. So far, I at least know my world didn't have magic and only has humans. That alone would be enough to drive a woman mad.

"Well, Dorian helped," I say, hoping to reassure her, "And Cullen too."

Her eyebrows shoot up. 

"Cullen?"

The lack of personal information on the Commander was becoming annoying. Nobody aside from the advisors knew him well enough outside of the role of a military leader, and surely that's a mask he slips into. All but confirmed based on what I've seen myself. Even Varric wasn't forthcoming about what he knew, which just makes me certain he knows more than he lets on. 

"Is that surprising?" I ask, and Fione gives me a smile that I cannot for the life of me pin down.

"A little bit." She laughs, and it's light and so bright that I almost feel the sunshine on my skin, "I figured he'd pawn you off to Solas or something."

"Oh, no, he definitely did." I snort, thinking about the way Solas' nose twitches when he wants to scowl at me but refuses to let me win. "Pretty sure that guy hates me."

"What? Why?" She asks, disbelieving. Fione's eyes are wide, like I've just told her Solas knocked me over the head with an iron pot. I'll have to unpack all that later.

"You know what? It's a long story." I don't have the energy to diplomatically explain why he wants to strangle me and vice versa, especially not after this morning. "But he did tell me… something. That you told him to keep secret."

Fione's entire body freezes in place, her wide dark eyes staring back at me, and even if I look at her for years I'd never be able to describe the emotions that pass across her features just then. Fear, anxiety, worry, _hope_. Something more, something else.

She reaches over and grabs my hand and holds it tight.

"I have seen how mages are treated, Cara, for having the audacity to be _born_ with magic," She whispers, "Where you came from… I have no proof. No explanation to make it easier. They wouldn't… understand it. I will _not_ let anyone hurt you."

A lump forms in my throat. I want to ask the specifics. How far up did I come from? How much did she see? What _else_ did she see around me? But it's all swallowed up by the care in his voice.

The feeling is unfamiliar. Being protected. A short reach into my soul tells me that I have always protected myself. No one else. It is illogical for Fione to stick her neck out for someone she shouldn't trust. And yet.

I stand, and hold my hand out to her. "We should get some food in you first."

Cassandra is standing guard just outside Fione's tent, and I nearly bash my head in on the back of her armor in my attempt to get out. 

"Apologizes, my lady." Cassandra moves out of the way like she's been electrocuted. I shake my head, giving her a smile that's genuine. Fione is alright; I don't have time to worry about whether this woman still thinks I'm a threat.

"Not your fault I'm a walking disaster." I tug on my hand, still attached to Fione's, and pull her out into the sunlight. "Is lunch ready? Fione should probably eat."

When Fione steps out and stretches her arms out high above her, Cassandra's eyes go wide like dinner plates. Like it takes her a second to realize this is like, actually Fione.

"Herald, you should not be walking about." She reaches out to grab Fione by the elbow but the elf is nimbler than her, slipping through her fingers easily with a twist of her body.

" _I'm_ the healer here, Cass. I've had enough of lying down for a while."

Cassandra sighs, and seems to concede to her point. Whether it's because she believes Fione or because Fione could pull rank at any second, I can't tell. 

Either way, I get it. There's something in Fione that I can recognize in myself. I saw it in the way she turned back to face the dragon at Haven and the way she digs her bare toes into the dirt here at camp and how she fought for her despite resistance from all sides.

Herald or not, she is not made of glass. And she won't let anyone treat her as such. I take note of that, for the future.

*

While I'm waiting on our food, I watch from a distance as Fione makes the rounds. Dorian finds her first; he gives her a hug so tight and fond that I almost feel like I have to look away. She's accosted by Sera next, who lifts her up in the air; Varric tries to tell her to take it easy but he's laughing all the same. Blackwall, Iron Bull, and Vivienne all give her varying degrees of pats, smiles, and words of encouragement. Then Cassandra approaches, says something with a smile on her face, and the smile Fione gives her is as dazzling as the sun.

And then Solas appears from behind a tent on the far end of the ground, and Fione practically pushes through the rest of them to get to him. From that I expect her to throw her arms around him or something, but instead she just grins wide as he says something to her, a fond smile on his own lips. 

I can feel the love in her heart, rising and surging like a snowball rolling down a hill, catching more and more of it as she moves.

Watching them all like this, together and rallied around her, makes me feel like I'm intruding on something private. Did I throw a wrench into things by arriving? I could've ruined a perfectly fine group dynamic, for all I know. Most of them seemed accepting enough, but I'll probably always wonder. An outsider in this group of outsiders.

Searching my heart yields nothing similar to the bonds Fione's formed in my past. Even if the details aren't there, I can't recall emotions I've never felt. The pressure on my temple presses down, like I'm not supposed to have realized it, but I know now. This kind of friendship is rare, even in my world. At least, rare enough that it eluded me.

I think back to the demon. I wonder why it wasn't this it offered. Love and affection and a place to belong. Perhaps it thought me too practical to succumb to sentimentality, but looking now… I'm not sure I would've said no.

She is so well loved by the people around her that I can almost feel it in the air — like the camp had let out a sigh of relief the moment she walked out of that tent, fresh-faced and cold and _alive_. I marvel at the kind of devotion a woman like that can draw out of people; it's what leaves stains on the pages of history books. Memorable heroes that people write songs about.

I think idly of the kind of songs Fione would inspire. They'd be quite lovely, I think, to match her.

*

"You're actually a _mage_?" Fione bursts out through a mouthful of broth, and it splatters all over my face. "Oh, I'm so sorry I didn't—" She reaches out to wipe but I wave her off. "Like you've done spells? I thought Solas was just... How did you just leave that out? That should've been the first thing you told me!"

We're sitting by one of the crates on the outskirts of the camp. Nobody save from a few patrolling guards comes near us — not even any of Fione's friends — and I suspect Cassandra has something to do with that. Or that self-righteous looking Chantry mother that's been watching over her. 

"My bad, was I supposed to go 'I'm glad you're alive, Fione. By the way, I'm for real magical'?"

"Maybe!" Fione's shoulders bunch up, grin threatening to split her face in half. "This is so exciting."

"Hardly. You should hear the way Solas talks to me." It's annoying, how just talking about magic makes me all too deeply aware of the deep blue energy coursing through my veins. The more I practiced the more I realized it's there, humming its song. I don't know how any of them bear it. 

And almost by extension, I become more aware of _her_. It's like our magical energy's the opposite ends of a magnet. The closer we are to each other, the stronger the pull. Let's not think about the repercussions of that right now. 

Fione gets this sympathetic look in her eyes, almost wistful. "He can't be _that_ bad."

I snort, letting my chin fall onto the palm of my hand. 

"I'm fairly certain if he had his way he'd have strangled me in my sleep by now." 

"Stop!" Fione says through giggles, clutching at her stomach. "He's _nice_."

There's a twinge of genuine fondness there. A single bud, not quite yet bloomed, and could turn into something more with cultivation and care. I'm not sure whose turn it is to make a move, but I'm getting the feeling it's not Fione. 

"To _you_ , maybe," I answer, to gauge her reaction. And just as I suspect, the pointed tips of her ears turn a little pink.

"What? No, to everybody."

Ah. There it is. I get it. I mean, I _don't_ get it, considering Solas looks about as sexually appealing as a hardboiled egg — which is to say, you know, not much — but we don't control who we like. And Solas is probably nicer to Fione, considering the fact that she's technically his boss, an elf, she's _pretty_ , and because she doesn't suck at magic.

Best to steer it away from whatever feelings she may or not may not be harbouring for our resident hobo apostate.

"One question." I learn forward, all conspiratorial, voice low. "And I'm sure you're dying to tell me."

"Oh, what is it?" She mirrors my movement, the smile never leaving her, and rests her chin on her knuckles. Her dark eyes seem to sparkle in the sunlight.

"You said you saw me in your dreams." My voice must be more solemn than I realize, because Fione's expression goes neutral, and then serious. "Is that why you trust me?"

Fione bites the corner of her lip and looks away, eyelashes fanning against her cheeks as she takes a deep breath. Nerves, or she's about to lie to me. I don't know how I know that.

"Promise you won't think I'm insane?" She looks up after another second, and I'm bowled over by the trust in her eyes. "Or possessed?"

What's there to lose? I have a feeling that if I knew everything about my past life and my world I'd be shitting my pants. It's like the ground's crumbled under my feet and tossed me into an abyss. 

"I don't remember anything about myself and I've just found out I have magic," I point out, "I doubt anything you say could make me think any less of you."

It seems to convince her. She takes another breath — a long inhale, a shaky exhale — and then speaks in almost a whisper. Like she's afraid someone could pop up by our heads any minute to snatch the secret out from underneath us.

"I've been dreaming of you since I was… a child."

I blink at her. Once, twice, thrice.

"A child."

"I know it's crazy." She reaches for me, and her fingers settle on the crook of my elbow. She's backtracking, terrified of something, trying to pull me back in. "I promise, I could scarcely believe it myself, but there's no dancing around it. I've always thought you were a spirit, or a… demon. But you never attacked, never even spoke and—"

"Never spoke? Definitely not me."

"I'm serious!" Fione's voice goes a little shrill, but there's a laugh bubbling underneath. "I was absolutely convinced I watched you grow up beside me. I don't know what it means. Perhaps we protected each other, all this time."

A world with no magic and no elves and no fancy dreams. That's where I'm from. And considering just how fond Fione is of Solas, there's no way she hasn't already been used as a dumping ground of information about the Fade. If she's stumped, then there's no explanations to be found. Not in this conversation.

I don't have the heart to tell her I've already been plagued by the very things she wishes I could shield her from. That just proves I'm a coward. Or weak. Anything but the protector she thinks I am.

"Wish I could give you answers, but I'm just as stumped as you."

Her eyes soften, and her fingers grip my arms a little tighter. 

"Perhaps the Creators gave you to me." Fione smiles again, but it's tender. The fear is still there, just underneath the surface. "As a present."

"I'm trouble, little bird." I reach up and pat her cheek. I trace the pretty wing of her tattoo with my thumb. "Doubt your gods would do that."

There. I see it. She tilts her head into my touch, and I wonder if it means something or if she's as touch-starved as I theorize. All that affection earlier must've been a rarity, considering she all but just came back from the dead. There's no way being the leader of this kind of military organization leaves you much room for cuddles. Solas for sure doesn't seem like the cuddly type.

It's sick, how quickly the thought comes to me, but it does all the same: having her affection is an advantage I can't squander. The fact that her word alone was enough to keep me from getting killed means I can't shoot a gift horse in the mouth.

"Why not?" She says, and she glances down at her left hand, "Not the craziest thing that's ever happened to me."

The Anchor. I asked questions about it, about what Fione could do or what powers it gave her, but even Solas couldn't give a very concrete explanation. She can stitch the Veil back together, push the Fade back into place. Close rifts. Those words still don't seem quite real to me, but I can feel the weight pressing down on her shoulders. 

I glance back to the rest of the camp. A flurry of movement and life. And suddenly I understand what Cullen meant when he argued with Josephine and Leliana and Cassandra. The people around us look downright terrified; fingers and feet fidgety from keeping still for too long, where there's no guarantee of safety. When the next sign of danger could mean the end.

Haven isn't too far away, and we've been here too long.

I look at Fione. The choices that must float around inside that head of hers. Pros and cons, options, roads. I get the feeling that nobody will move until she gives the say so. So I ask. 

"Would they believe you?"

Her eyes go sharp. Clear and honest and determined. The fire in her heart burning just as brightly as it did the first time I saw her.

"They must," She says, "I'll make them."

The two of us talk for as long as they let us. With hushed whispers she tells me of Corypheus: describes the way the red lyrium cuts through his body, the dragon he commands, and the way his eyes pierced through her. Why she was chosen, and what he's after. Suddenly I'm _glad_ I read the Chant of Light last night, because when she describes with a grave voice the way Corypheus had walked to the Black City, I understand the weight of it all.

After a while, she starts to talk about the life she was forced to leave behind for this cause. Her clan, and her Keeper, and her culture. She calls herself Dalish. The elves are the People and the Creators are their gods and she tells of the promises she had made but won't be able to keep.

I listen. That's all I can do. I don't belong here, and but still my heart aches at the thought of this girl going through something this massive, this world-shaking, away from the only family she knows and without a place to call home.

I tell her as much, in hopes of comforting her or something. I don't know if it works, but she smiles at me all the same.

Eventually the Chantry lady with the ridiculously massive hat steps into our space, and our privacy is broken. I think her name is Mother Something. I never bothered to learn. 

"My lady," She addresses _me_ directly, instead of Fione, and she sounds like a parent scolding a child who'd stolen a pastry, "The Herald must rest."

I give her my winning smile. If she sees right through me, that's not my problem. I get the feeling she doesn't hold much sway here.

"Of course." I answer, sticky sweet and completely out of character. I stand, gathering up both mine and Fione's bowls with one hand, and then squeeze Fione's shoulder with the other. "Send for me… if you need me."

She smiles up at me, but the weight is there. Closing in on all sides.

"I will."

*

Mother Giselle. That's her name. And that night she leads the crowd through a song that I definitely don't know the words too, but it's easy enough to get the gist.

The dawn will come. 

The growing bubble of anxiety that had encased the entire camp the last few days seems to pop once the song ends, replaced with a surge of determination and hope. That's the word that lingers when the crowd disperses and Fione disappears off the edge of camp with Solas.

Hope. It's enough to carry anyone through a storm.

Can't say I agree completely — something tells me this cynicism is stitched into my bones — but I see the appeal. I see how much stronger people can be when they believe there's something waiting for them after all the struggle. It's quite disgustingly sentimental, but it has its uses.

I suppose they should take advantage of anything that can help them unite against the literal monster that wants to take over the world. After all, I'm a part of it now.

My blood pounds against my skull at my temple, the beginnings of a headache blooming.

When Fione returns, she calls all of her advisors to the large table in the middle of camp, and walks them through her plan.

Camp breaks the day after, without much fanfare. My sleep is blessedly dreamless, on account of exhaustion, so at dawn I fold up my bedroll and my pack and secure my boots tight around my ankles. The snow will be unbearable after spending days in the relative safety of a camp surrounded by fires, but I'll survive. Surely there are worse things out there.

Dorian offers me the crook of his elbow, and I wind my arm through his with ease.

*

It happens five hours into our trek.

After a while, Dorian and I realize walking arm in arm isn't quite as sustainable as we'd hoped. My muscles ache from the walk, clearly not used to the strain and compounded with the previous day's training. Solas hands me the spare staff to lean on. Slowly, inch by inch, the Inquisition moves through the mountains.

The sky is streaked pink by the sunset when my knees buckle and I drop face-first into the snow.

Darkness rises up to meet me, and I begin to fall. From the clouds down and down and down, wind whistling past my ears and my chest slowly crushed by the pressure as I drop through the sky.

A clear pale blue and a cloud of ravens bursting out of a tower. Battlements and collapsed towers and a courtyard overgrown with flora I don't recognize. Remnants of souls that have passed through her halls, flitting through my line of sight, just past the tip of my tongue. 

Underneath me is a castle. Not quite as grand as I'd imagine castles to be, but there is something in the stone that reaches out to my soul. Tendrils of sickly green magic curl upward and loop around me, and with a lurch, a snap, I'm dragged back down.

Solas' words echo all around me, like a rumble of thunder.

_"You fell from the sky."_

When my back slams against the hard-packed earth, I wake up.

Faces swim into focus in front of me. I've been laid on my back, my head cradled in Dorian's lap, and Fione and Solas hover over me.

"Solas," I say, my mouth dry and bitter and unsure where the words come from, "She's beautiful."

There. What appears to be a small smile, just on the corners of his mouth. Bittersweet and laced with a yearning I don't understand.

When he speaks, it's in a whisper. 

"She is."

*

After I'd regained my senses, I was able to check that my vision's range was relatively small. Only the few people directly around me were dragged into it — Dorian, Fione, Solas, and farther away maybe Cole — and Fione assured me no one else was close enough. The procession had thinned out considerably by the time I passed out, with people going at such varied paces. That, at least, was one worry off my mind.

While Dorian seemed mostly shocked by it, he was a good sport, and after a while he's more fascinated by me than anything. Apparently even that far north there aren't any freaks like me.

It takes another half hour for me to realize something has come back, snuck through the slip of the doorway that let the sight of the fortress in, and now exists in the forefront of my mind.

Thankfully everyone else is silent. After fussing over me for another minute or two, Fione had gone back to take up her position at the head of the party, and eventually even Dorian goes back to pretending he's having a good time shuffling through all this snow.

Barely anything, really, if I think about it for longer than two seconds, but compared to the vast amounts of nothing it might as well be too much.

My mother. The rubber band tightens the farther I reach for her, but I can't let it go. One memory of her — a flash of a smile, eyes light gold, glittering in the low light — when I'm barely grown enough to remember. I can see her face so clearly in my head now. Could probably sketch her out if I had the skill, and there's no guarantee I don't. 

Hair that's as dark as a raven's wings. Skin a sickly kind of pale that means she's spent her life hiding indoors, in fear, or something else. Eyes that glisten and shine against the rest of her.

Are those what my eyes look like? Strange and unnatural and terrifying?

I try not to think about it. I'm having a hard enough time existing in this world without having to worry about whether or not people can see that I don't belong with a single glance.

Whoever my mother is, she no longer exists. Even through the painful haze of memory, that much I know is true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me if i get any lore wrong im doing my best lmao
> 
> ALMOST AT SKYHOLD. that only took idk 50 fucking years whats wrong with me. anyway! i hope youre all still enjoying this and putting up with me and my terrible hyperfixation. 
> 
> ive already found a lovely beta for this, but if u wanna talk abt the fic or try ur hand at betaing too hmu on my brand spanking new [da tumblr](https://sexyapostate.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> next update will come Next Week sunday! <3


	6. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara, meet Skyhold. She's pleased to make your acquaintance.

Fione is the first to catch sight of the fortress. She is graceful and nimble and able to clamber over rocks I wouldn't touch in a thousand years. Even though she's far out of my line of sight, I can see so clearly the swell of excitement that buzzes through her when she sees it for the first time. Like I'm watching a smile bloom on her face without having to look at her.

I don't know what it is, but she's the only mage whose magic I can hear. 

It doesn't take long for word to spread, and soon every person is murmuring about the castle, anticipation crackling in the air. I know that by the time each person crosses the threshold into the keep they'll sag under the weight of relief, all the grief and fatigue flooding back in all at once, but this last burst of energy will get them through this last stretch. It has to. 

A rather forceful shove pushes me out of my thoughts and onto a pile of snow.

"Move it, piss eyes!"

Sera bounds past rows of soldiers and quickly reaches the front of the group. Her laughter bounces off their silver helmets and fades into the cool mountain air. Varric helps me up.

"I—" I scrunch up my nose as I shake the flakes from my hair. "What does she mean?"

"Your eyes, darling." Vivienne's haughty voice answers from her mount, and the very sound of her immediately makes my teeth grind together. "They're a rather disgusting sort of yellow."

Ouch. Not everyone in Fione's inner circle is quite ready to accept me as an ally. As strange as the group seems together, I have to remember it's not some group of strays forced together through lack of choice. It's an institution, and I can't exactly expect everyone to be sunshine and butterflies with everyone else. _I'm_ not capable of that, either.

But the comment does bring back the image of my mother, with her strange piercing gaze and her shining eyes. No one else has commented on my appearance save Dorian, who peppers in compliments here and there in a futile effort to cheer me up. I haven't so much as looked at a reflective surface since I got here. I don't even know if they have mirrors on hand, or if they have to wait for merchants to find their way to them in the middle of all these mountains. But I can't very well tell them that. Need to know, after all. So. Caution.

"You've never seen anything like them?"

I can't see her face from down here, but I know she's keeping her expression perfectly poised. Vivienne seems like the type to have these types of skills down to a science.

"I have, though only once." She sounds nonchalant, like she's merely tossing a beggar a spare loaf of bread, "Perhaps there's some Chasind in your blood that you're not aware of."

With that, she trots away. I can't help the frown — as I always do when someone makes a historical or cultural reference I don't quite recognize yet — and look to Dorian for help.

"Chasind?"

It's Blackwall who answers, not pretending to hide his disdain for the lady mage. "Barbarians from the wilds of Ferelden, she means. An Orlesian's worst nightmare."

"Well, your eyes are gorgeous, starshine." Varric pats me on the back. "Don't let them get to you."

I look down at him, eyebrows furrowed in question. "Starshine?"

"You heard me," Varric says, as if that explains anything, and just trudges on forward. "Let's pick up the pace. I imagine there's more work to be done once we're actually inside this keep."

Solas calls her Skyhold. And I know in my heart that it's right.

Skyhold is everything all at once. My vision had scared me, just a tiny bit — it made me wonder if something in the castle was going to steal me away into the night or something — but it's clear once I step into her that there was no danger here.

The stone hums with a magic I can't quite place — every step calls out to my soul and tugs me down, like nothing could tear me from the ground — and I understand what I saw. Skyhold is sturdy, she is secure, and she could weather anything Corypheus throws at us. She feels a little like where I've always meant to be. 

I've never felt like this before. Even without memories, I know when a feeling is new.

_"You will shine far brighter than the rest of them. That much I can promise you."_

*

They name her the Inquisitor. It feels too pretentious a name for her, but I suppose "Herald" is the same, if not worse. These religious types are so dramatic.

I watch from the crowd as Fione takes the sword and accepts her role as their leader. Pledges of loyalty rise up from the ground. It occurs to me that each and every one of them acknowledge her as the hand by which they were saved from Corypheus' massacre. Cullen rallies troops and civilians alike, and I watch as Fione puts on a brave face and shoulders it all. 

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my heart, I feel it. A small pinprick of fear, stinging like a papercut. But Fione stays true to her word, refusing to let her reluctance show through. Already she's prioritizing the well-being of the organization, so I suppose they chose their leader well. 

Settling in takes a while. 

Skyhold is hollowed out and empty, like a fruit that's been scooped out of its flesh. Solas mentions something about how she's passed hands so many times nobody truly knows whose hands laid her first bricks — humans or elves or something else.

So we make camp, right there in the courtyard. The high walls of her fortifications keep out the howling wind and the biting cold well enough, and thank everything that is right and holy for that. I don't think I could handle another night of counting my toes. 

I put my bedroll under the stars. Something tells me it's not going to rain.

My dreams are pleasant and free of demons, but Solas' steady presence lingers just outside the edges of my little pocket of the Fade. True to his word, he'd kept watch. Never quite touching, but close enough to keep me from falling victim again. Helplessness isn't a good look on me. In a few days I'll no doubt be frustrated enough to snap.

I wake up earlier than I plan to. Maybe that'll afford Solas a precious few hours of real sleep before the rest of the keep becomes too loud for him to bear. I owe him that much.

Once everyone's well-rested from travel, the real work begins, and I would be lying if I said I was well-equipped for the hustle and bustle of a castle being brought back to life. Training has left my muscles sore and aching, but it's a good sign, I know that much. Thedas is whipping my weak, pathetic little body into shape, and the sooner it’s over with the better. 

I can't imagine myself surviving very long if I don't get some real muscle on these bones. The chub I'd arrived with has already started to melt away. My home must've been something else entirely for this kind of lifestyle to affect my body so drastically. 

A system is found and established rather quickly, and a burly woman a full foot taller than me is appointed Foreman. She works alongside Cullen and Captain Rylen, tracing supply lines and mapping out Skyhold to its minutiae. Everything must be studied and accounted for as reconstruction efforts are planned. 

Anyone standing nearby is likely to overhear, so I don't particularly feel like I'm eavesdropping. It's not my fault Cullen's makeshift desk of two crates and a spare plank of wood is set up in the middle of the courtyard. His voice carries well enough.

An armory has been chosen. Temporary quarters have been found for the soldiers and it makes me wonder idly where I’ll end up in this organization with its chain of command. The Nightingale's scouts have been sent around the surrounding area to search for any possible threats, including villages or other habitation. Wouldn't want to mess with any people who've taken up residence in the area; they _were_ here first.

Guard rotations. Supply lines. Bolstering fortifications. Requisitions for more weapons and armor for the new recruits, as well as the workers who will want to pick up a sword once the keep is secure.

By the time I finish my meager breakfast, I decide the Commander is both highly competent and disastrously overworked. Whatever they're paying him, _if_ they’re paying him, it can't possibly be enough.

Foreman Sherice isn't a big fan of putting someone as dainty as me to work — too high a risk for injury, if done wrong — but the lack of manpower and my bullheaded attitude convinces her all the same. I'd rather risk myself than risk the injured by forcing me into the healing tent, lest I accidentally kill someone. Being idle leaves me fidgeting and restless.

Antsy is the right word, I think. Everyone around me is moving and building and working so fast that I can't seem to still my hands long enough to help in a way that matters. I end up following Sera around. She's somehow familiar with all the odds and ends of the staff and knows them all by name, which is a miracle in and of itself. I think I'm terrible with names, I confess to her, and she just snorts.

More importantly, whatever she's allowed to do, I'm permitted to help with. 

"What's yer deal then, piss eyes?" Sera asks, when we've been left to survey and dust the tables and chairs in the building that's meant to become the tavern. I get the feeling we'll be spending a good amount of time here. "You some sort of fugitive? Noble running away from home? S’pose you're not just another apostate Inky's decided to adopt?"

The rag comes away disgusting and black when I drag it once over the top of an ancient table. At least the wood's not eaten through.

I flinch a little when Iron Bull laughs his booming laugh from the first floor. The Chargers have been helping move whatever salvageable furniture around, and there's a sense of camaraderie between them that makes my stomach lurch. Is it jealousy? Maybe. I've already established that I've never been part of something like that, but I'm unsure if it was self-inflicted.

"I don't have a _deal_ ," I tell her, keeping my voice from wavering as I get every corner, "I'm just me. Trying to survive. And stop _calling_ me that, or I'll think of an equally embarrassing nickname for _you_."

I know immediately it's no good. The girl knows how to draw information out of anyone, it seems. She should work for Leliana. Being underestimated seems to be Sera's whole thing, and with an accent like that and a sense of humor that crass it's not too hard to see why it works. Faced off with someone like Vivienne, Sera would fly completely under the radar.

Unfortunately I don't have the finesse to maneuver around her. Such is life.

"You're an awful liar. Anyone ever tell you that?" Sera says, wrinkling her nose. "Should make up a cover story, and be quick about it too. I dunno what exactly you're hiding, but I don't like weird, and I don't like secrets."

"My past is my past," I tell her. I look away and count the chairs in the room. "None of that matters now. We're _all_ part of the Inquisition."

Sera blows out a breath, more raspberry than anything, and then says, "Fine. Whatever. Eventually someone else is gonna come knocking up in that pretty little skull of yours, and they won't be as nice as me, aye?"

It should strike fear in me, because she's right, but then a cloud of dust ends up right in her face and she lets out the daintiest, most _adorable_ little sneeze. I practically fall to the floor wheezing and she climbs on top of me to half-heartedly clobber me.

Eventually the two of us seperate to cover more ground. When I reach the third floor — much less furniture up here — I almost run chest first into a boy.

" _Oh._ " I dig my heels into the wooden floorboards to keep from barreling into him and nearly fall backward down the stairs. The boy grabs my hand and pulls me back on my feet. 

"I, um." I catch my breath, and he takes two steps back. "Hello."

Cole. Sweet little Cole. I'd heard about what he is — or what he seems to be. It's hard to believe, but in a world with magic and dragons and demons, my suspension of disbelief is at an all time high. 

Besides, his cause seems noble enough. Help the hurt, ease the dying into the Fade, give people the strength to heal from the things that make their hearts ache. 

He didn't seem to pay me any mind before today. Maybe no memories means no hurt to heal. Seems logical enough. Or perhaps there are worse pains to handle, in the grander scheme of things. Injuries and grief that I can't possibly compare to.

Based on what he claims to be, he seems incapable of ulterior motive. It's refreshing, knowing there's someone here I don't have to tiptoe around.

Either way, he's standing in front of me, and I can see him clear as the sunlight streams in through the hole in the ceiling.

"Fragments, pieces, picked clean. Not shattered, but almost." Cole says, soft spoken and gentle, shooting straight to my heart, "You hear it sing too. Reaching from a distance. Two ends of a tunnel, light on the other side." 

It takes me a few seconds, but then I feel the gentle buzz of Fione, somewhere in the castle. By the great hall, or Josephine's new office. The pleasant smell of lilies and wet grass and a freshly peeled tree bark. Always there. 

Does Cole hear her too? 

"Well then," I say, and hold my hand out. "I've heard about you. It's a pleasure, Cole."

He doesn't shake it. I'm not sure if he's familiar with human customs, but he should be, considering he's been running around reading minds. Maybe it's only a custom where I'm from. 

"You fit." He says then, deep sunken eyes boring into my soul, "Snugly, like my hat." 

It knocks the breath out of me, unexpectedly, as I run through the possibilities of what he could mean. After all this time, I didn't think I'd had any angst over the fact that I was displaced. Taken. _Lost_. That is a fact. There's no scenario in which this is where I belong, where I wasn't snatched from somewhere else and dropped into Fione's lap.

There must be someone out there looking for me. Someone who has noticed my absence, despite the lack of longing in the hole where my heart should be.

How could he know that, if all he can do is read thoughts? Where could he have possibly have plucked that from? From who?

"Not lost. _Found_." Cole insists, going to grip my hands firmly in his. "You just don't see it yet. I'll _make_ you see it."

He squeezes my fingers just tightly enough. Not enough to hurt, but I stare back at him with my yellow eyes and wonder if I could get him to tell me more if I asked. Maybe not right now. I don't know if I can handle it.

"Tha— Thank you, Cole." 

He lets go, and gives me a small smile.

"I only want to help."

With that, he steps away, and seems to flicker out of existence entirely. Something tells me that's not something most people can do.

Is he a mind reader? A fortune teller? Maybe he can make sense of my visions, or tell me more about the version of myself that's locked away. Can he get to her? Shove past the barrier in my mind? I pick up the rag from where I dropped it, and start wiping down the railings. 

Eventually Sera calls me back down to say Cabot promised us a small cask of ale once we finish cleaning up the whole place, and we both race to finish as much as we can before the day is done.

*

By the time night falls, we've gotten the tavern pretty much sorted out. People from all over have come to claim tables, take their meals, and unwind after a full day of trying to get the castle inhabitable again. The Chargers take up almost half of the first floor, already deep in their cups by the time I left them. Stitches had forced a few drinking songs on me before I could escape.

They were kind enough, I decided. Krem in particular sat by me the entire time, nudging me every once in a while to get me to join in on the conversation. They seemed like the same type of people Fione surrounds herself with — outcasts and outliers, people who rejected their place in the world, or people without a place at all. Suits me just fine, I suppose. Besides, I'm not gonna let them drink _all_ the good stuff.

He pushed drink after drink at me — the ale Cabot promised us all — and though I sipped them slowly I could still feel the haziness of the alcohol in my veins an hour later. It was… good, I think. Familiar in a way that doesn't make the band around my head tighten. Like coming home.

There's a door on the third floor that leads to the battlements. Everything in Skyhold seems to be connected, with twists and turns I doubt I'll be able to fully explore. It's like she grew alongside whoever built her, expanding in ways they never truly expected.

The Inquisition will use that foundation wisely, I think. Befitting of her.

I'm not entirely sure if this part of the battlements have been deemed safe by the Commander yet, but I'm willing to take my chances. Being around so many people all day has left me utterly spent.

The chill of the mountain bites into my cheeks as I walk out, and it does more than enough to sober me up. Thank God, or the Maker, or _whoever_ it is I'm supposed to be thanking now that I'm here.

It all looks stable enough, so I take a few careful steps towards one of the towers. None of them have been occupied just yet, since Fione has insisted on making sure all the living quarters and kitchens and cisterns and whatever else are working first. Smart of her, I'd say. Too bad I know jackshit about all that. Seems like I was rather useless in my world, which does nothing for my confidence.

I'm feeling brave. Even with my feet a little steadier, I can feel the alcohol thrumming under my skin. I go to the edge of the battlements, and stare out into the distance, the landscape stretching across to the horizon and opening up into a twinkling sky.

Two moons. That's definitely something we didn’t have back home.

The silence is nice, for a while, but it doesn't last. After a few minutes, the door to the tavern swings open, and someone steps out. I whip my head towards the sound so fast I'm surprised I don't snap my neck.

Whoa. Jumpy. But then again, several people _have_ threatened to kill me, so you can hardly blame me.

"You're handling this quite well, little girl," the Iron Bull says, all casual like, holding a massive tankard in his hand. All this time he didn't say much to me — if you don't count the times he was addressing the entire group of Chargers I was sat in — and mostly gave me a wide berth. Which was fine by me. 

To be quite honest, he still terrifies me. He could probably snap my spine in half with his forefinger.

"Handling what?" I ask, and my voice doesn't even shake. Points for me. "And I'm not _little_. I'm a grown woman."

"Don't play coy now." He chuckles, ignoring the second half of my statement. He takes a swig of his drink. "Your secret's safe with me."

Shit. Well, that throws a wrench in this. I didn't expect it to say secret for too long, considering just how quickly gossip spreads through the people here. I wasn't exactly quiet that night in the Haven Chantry. Someone must've overheard.

And the Iron Bull found out. Big, strong, deadly Iron Bull. Versus tiny, pathetic me. No big deal.

Even with swords all over, the size of this guy struck more fear into my heart than the others. Is it because there weren't many swords where I come from? The fear seems more natural, familiar. That's probably it. What did people fight with, if not with swords?

Ugh, my head. I rub at my temple, and shake my head at Bull. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Not nearly as convincing as I want to be. Pathetic. I'm out of practice, it seems.

"Of course." Utter amusement in his tone, and I know he doesn't believe me. And then he asks, "What do you know about the Qun?"

The Qun. Qunari. That's a gap in my knowledge I haven't been able to rectify, considering the only Qunari here is someone I am utterly terrified by. And considering I was still wrapping my head around the concepts of Circles and Templars and the Divine, I shouldn't beat myself up over it.

Like, logically, I shouldn't, but even my thirst for knowledge didn't propel me to just go chat with the big guy. Because… scared. Yeah.

But omitting it in all of the explanations must mean something in and of itself, right? Dorian offered up concepts I didn't ask about, and he didn't seem to think the Qun was important to discuss, despite the fact that one of them was in the inner circle. So that must mean it's not something quite as widespread as the Chantry. 

"Admittedly not much," I say, trying to weigh my words, "And I'd imagine that's how it is even for people who've lived their whole lives here."

Iron Bull lets out something that's a cross between a huff and a laugh. Like a sharp exhale through his nose.

"You're smart. Don't waste that."

"I don't plan on it."

There's a beat of silence then. Someone in the tavern starts up another song, and the chorus of voices rises up into the air and cuts through the serenity of the night sky. The cold stone is torture on my forearms as I lean forward through a gap in the stones, but I'm too terrified to move.

"So, my place in the Qun," Iron Bull says then, "Do you know what it is?"

I shake my head. Seems I'll be doing that a lot in his presence.

"No."

"I am Ben-Hassrath." Must be a Qunari word. Bull pronounces it differently from words in common; more pronounced hissing sounds. "Lots of jobs under that title, but think of us like priests. Protectors of the knowledge."

I can't help it; I snort. "You don't seem very priestly."

"Hah, you're right." Bull pauses, and then says, enunciating the words clearly, "I work with _information_."

It dawns on me right away, and I pray to the damned Maker that Bull doesn't notice how my back stiffens, just by a fraction.

"You're a spy."

I spare him a glance, and he's smiling down at me, his single eye glinting in the moonlight. The sight of him makes my breath catch in my throat, and not in a good way.

"Like I said. Smart." He doesn't drop the smile, despite the weight of his words. "Do you know what that means?"

I swallow around the lump in my throat.

"I suspect you've got a specific answer in mind."

"Do you understand?"

My mouth goes dry. It's like he's staring into my very soul and riffling around in there. 

It's not a threat of death, per se. More general. Don't betray the Inquisition. Don't do anything that will compromise our trust in you. Don't do anything to make me think you're anything but what you say you are. As if I was planning on doing any of those things in the first place. 

He has no reason to doubt me, but if he's a spy, then, well. That's his job, isn't it?

A nod. I can manage that. I force my body to relax, to ease my muscles back to life and to stand up straight in front of him. Chin held high. Chest puffed out. Not scared. And I nod.

"I do."

He regards me for another long moment, his eye flicking down my body, and then nods back. The usual levity floods back into him, and he downs the rest of his drink in a single swallow.

"Good. Best get yourself some more ale before the Chargers down it all. It'll be some time before the merchants can make their way up here." 

I sigh, and force the last bits of tension out of my shoulders when he turns to walk away. It's been a _really_ long day.

"Thanks for the advice, Bull." 

Bull doesn't even look back. "Anytime, little girl."

So everyone still wants me dead. Nice to know.

That makes Bull the third — or fourth? — person who's threatened to kill me. Not in so many words, and my fear might be clouding my judgement, but the possibility is there, and it's high. Makes a girl feel right at home in the Inquisition. I'd tell Fione, but I know I'm not the type of girl who goes running to mommy when another kid pushes her over. I'm way too self-reliant for that.

I look at the stars, and wonder if I'll ever get any answers.

When I turn to head back in, the voice in my head sounds clearer than I've ever heard it, this far away from the bustle of the soldiers and the mercenaries and the mages. It's husky and low, almost amused, like I can hear the smile on her lips.

And it is a woman. That much I'm sure of.

_"Stay alive, child. I'll make it worth your while."_

*

That night I dream of Fione.

My tent is small but it keeps the cold of the night air out. Allows me a little bit of privacy that I crave. I can tell I'm not used to having this many people so close around me. Despite the lack of concrete details, every single difference between Thedas and my upbringing is stark and clear in my gut. My body understands the sharp turn my life has taken, and my lack of choice in the matter.

So when I dream, the kind spirits of the Fade decide it's best if I stay in Skyhold, even while I sleep. At least, that's what I think they want for me. None of them exactly _speak_.

I'm standing in the middle of the little rotunda underneath the library that Solas has claimed for himself. So far all it has are a few sealed crates and a desk in the center, already littered with scraps of paper and a few books. The walls of the room are blank — rough stone that looks unfinished somehow — save for a small spot in the corner. A patch of green paint, freshly done, next to a paintbrush that's still wet.

And Fione is there, in the doorway, glowing white and beautiful and warm, like staring directly at the sun. 

"Fione?" I ask, and my voice echoes all around us. "What are you doing here?"

I can't tell if she's real. Is this what she meant, when she said I visited her dreams? Am I in her dream right now, or is she in mine? I can't tell; all this Fade business still twists my head into knots.

I take a step towards her, and she doesn't move. Doesn't even react. So I take another step, and then another, and then I'm right in front of her. If I only reached out, I could touch her. Run my fingers down her arm, feel her warmth. Savor it. 

But I don't. I don't know how this all works. What if I fuck it up, just because I wanted to see if I could? 

Is Solas here? 

I turn around, and try to make out the shapes in the corners of the room. None of them feel familiar enough to be him, but there's nothing sinister either. I'm safe, for the moment, and nothing in this room is out to eat me. That's a comfort at least.

When I turn back to Fione, it's her that's reaching out. A hand stretched out, barely an inch from me. I take a step back from shock.

"Fione?" I say again, louder this time, "Is that you?"

The figure steps forward, glowing brighter with each step, and I decide there's no use running. I walked up to _her_ first, after all. There's no danger here. I would be able to tell if there was, wouldn't I?

When she finally touches me, it's to place her hand on my cheek. This close up I can see the features on her face, golden, bathed in light. Her eyes stare right into mine, disbelieving. It's warm and comforting, and her thumb leaves a trail of fire with each stroke.

And then a twig snaps behind us — why is there a _twig_ nearby? — and the spell is broken. Fione snatches her hand back, and the second the contact is lost I jolt upright in my tent.

It's morning. And people have already begun to move, outside, and I barely feel rested at all. Is that normal for mages? Do we just walk through life like this, every single day?

God, the Fade can eat my ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise cullen is in the next chapter lmao theres just so many characters i gotta wrangled them like cats. and i just love skyhold sm if i could actually live there i would
> 
> thank you to lovely mj for betaing this chapter! you've been an absolutely gem <3 
> 
> as always comments r loved and appreciated!!! thank you so much for reading!! update next sunday! 
> 
> [tumblr](https://sexyapostate.tumblr.com/)


	7. Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara watches in awe as Skyhold is rebuilt into a fortress worthy of the Inquisition. Hopefully it has a place for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. some dialogue is lifted from the inquisitor's first convo with solas in haven

Since Cullen had ordered that the living quarters, kitchen, and armory be cleared out first, most of us stragglers ended up in different parts of the castle. The garden was large and beautiful, if a bit overgrown. The library required professionals to keep whatever books that could be salvaged intact while everything was repaired. My fumbling hands were far from gentle, and I'm fairly certain I had the opposite of whatever a green thumb was.

That's how I ended up with Dorian and Fione picking out debris from the keep's main hall. It's large and drafty, more holes than roof, and will be perfect for whatever celebrations or get-togethers the nobles require. I could almost see Josephine's eyes sparkle when we walked in— no doubt she's already making design choices in her head.

But first, all this goddamn rubble. 

It needs to be cleared out before any other stone and wood work can be done on the place. The cleaning effort is half-finished by the time we get there, the front half reduced to only the smooth but chipped stones that line the floor. The main bulk of the workforce assigned here has begun constructing the scaffolding necessary to reach the ceiling and fix the roof. The back half was, well, still a bit of a mess.

Dorian prefers to use magic for these tasks, which I should've expected. Something about refusing to ruin his perfectly moisturized hands, the priss, but I have to admit it cuts down our workload significantly when he finally convinces Fione to use magic as well.

Stone and wood and various animal carcasses float through the air and disappear through the doorway with ease. Dorian chatters on about how things are built in Tevinter—magic makes everything easier, he insists—and I start tugging vines off the walls with my gloved hands so I don't feel utterly useless.

It doesn't work. I pout as Dorian comes back after another successful sweep, looking delighted with himself.

"This stained glass is just _darling_ , isn't it?" Dorian points to the last remaining pane of colored glass on the back wall of the room. There are sharp greens, whites, and yellows that stretch all the way to twenty feet in the air. "What do you think it is? Ferelden? Orlesian?"

Fione tilts her head to get a better look.

"Looks a bit elven to me." 

"Does it now?" Dorian mimics her, and they both look a little goofy with their heads to the side. "Hm, I suppose it does. Did elves make a habit of using stained glass or would it just be these ones in particular?" 

I push my way between them and sling an arm around each of their shoulders. It's a bit of an awkward position, considering Dorian's height, but I make it work. 

"Whichever it is, most of it is smashed through." I purse my lips to point at the shattered half of it, only for my feet to connect with something on the ground. "Ick. This is _wet_."

There's a half rotted out piece of wood they'd somehow missed, hidden underneath a small scattering of fractured stones. And I'm certain there's something skittering around in its crevices. I do _not_ want to know why it made a squishy sound when my boot touched it. Thedas is _gross_.

"That's because there's a hole in the ceiling right there," Dorian says, lifting his head, and the movement nearly hauls me off the ground. I slide my arm away from him before he has a chance to yank my shoulder out of its socket.

"Well, I'm not touching that, even with gloves."

With one fluid motion, Dorian sweeps the staff from his back and immediately lifts everything— wood, termites, moisture and broken stone alike— off the ground, sending it on its way to be disposed of. He even manages to catch what little of it had clung to my shoes. 

"Magic, my lady." Dorian smiles, adjusting his sleeves. "It does wonders."

"Good for you, oh talented one." I roll my eyes, and then give him an exaggerated little curtsey. It would've been more powerful if I didn't wobble when I tried to cross one leg behind the other, but _whatever_. "I am but a lowly plebeian, and I cower at your majesty’s feet."

Dorian looks like he very much wants to shove me but knows better than to try anything in front of Fione. 

"You’re an _impatient_ little thing, aren't you?" Dorian tuts, grabbing one of my hands and straightening me up. "I do love learning new facts about you. It paints such a darling picture."

Fione looks like she wants to shove _both_ of us, or at the very least drag us across the room by our ears. It's an adorable expression on her angelic face.

"Children, the both of you." Fione steps in front of the stained glass again, crossing her arms over her chest. "Is this supposed to be a mountain?"

"Might be a dog," Dorian offers.

"Anything you could do with that branch up there?" I reach up to point at it: one of the trees just outside decided it would take the open window as an invitation, and now half of it is creeping inside, leaves swaying in the wind. "Better to get it out now, I think. Might as well get rid of it altogether, actually; the light in here would be better."

Fione agrees, and Dorian truly embraces his role as the big strong man in this scenario because he prepares the spell again. "Give me just a moment."

A harsh, thundering _crack_ resounds across the room as the largest branch is sundered from the main trunk, but just as it inches its way inside, Dorian's arm twitches and the whole thing comes crashing down.

_"Ah!"_

Fione and I barely manage to jump out of the way before the branch slams against the stone floor and shatters into a million pieces.

It's more instinct than anything— some deeply rooted fear of wooden splinters getting embedded in my skin— and I'm face to face with a barrier of my own making, a thousand tiny bits of wood suspended in the air. It's large enough that it shielded both me _and_ Fione from the worst of it.

Dorian looks pretty goddamn pleased with himself. Smug, even. 

"Oops?"

The only reason I don't tackle him to the ground is because Fione manages to snake her arms around my waist before I launch myself at him.

"You _bastard_!" I shout at him, half breathless with laughter, "You did that _on purpose_!"

"Nonsense!"

The rest of the afternoon passes this way, with each of us doing the absolute most to drive the other two up the goddamn wall, and I decide I wouldn't have it any other way. For the first time since arriving in this godforsaken corner of the universe, I feel happy.

*

A man dies the next day.

I didn't know his name, but I'd heard of him. Knew his face, too, if I really thought about it. He had been there with me and Fione and Dorian, laughing with his fellow workers about something inconsequential. Someone's inability to lift a piece of rubble. A joke about someone's failed romantic pursuits. Breathless laughter laced with relief. After Haven, after everything.

And yet, he dies all the same. The Foreman said he'd fallen from high up and lived for another hour before the Maker claimed him for his own. 

It's unfair. I doubt many people will even notice he's gone, what with the list of those who had been lost at Haven growing steadily each day as names are found and questions are asked. When the roads open up and people come streaming in, with their new names and new faces, he'll be forgotten completely.

Pointless. Death is so pointless.

" _Do not follow him."_

You don't have to tell me, lady in my head. Here again with the super helpful advice. Self-preservation seems to be second nature to me, and I'm still trying to parse out which parts of that are truly me and which I’ve grown in the last week in a desperate attempt to keep myself alive. Survival of the fittest and all that. It's worked so far, but still, I wonder.

Against my better judgement, I wind up finding the exact spot where he'd fallen. It's hard to miss, and I can see the clear words on the note the Foreman posted on that bit of scaffolding. If I close my eyes I can almost hear the sound of his bones cracking and the splatter of blood on the stones. It's been cleaned, I know, but the image burns itself into my eyelids all the same.

After that, I avoid it.

God forbid I'm still this soft-hearted the first time a man dies in front of me. Or in my arms. Or by my hand. It's a matter of _if_ , not _when_.

It's almost too easy to forget that every single friend I've made so far has hands soaked in blood. 

Nobody seeks me out that afternoon, which doesn't bother me. It gives me time to think. The kitchens are right next to the stables, and everything already stinks of horse manure but it's a good distraction. They've just managed to clear out the fallen bridge that blocked out this area. As I shuffle pots and pans and sacks of potatoes around wordlessly with the other women too weak to haul stone, I come to the realization that injury wasn't something I needed to worry about in my world.

Sedentary is right, I think. Movement was safe. I could go my whole life without much fear of breaking a bone. And I can't call up the memory of what a broken bone could possibly feel or even look like.

Sheltered is another word that they'd use for me. Sera certainly wouldn't hesitate, though she’d put it more colorfully. Like some fussy noble girl who's never worked a day in her life. Never so much as a callous on her fingers or the soles of her feet. Good thing I'm not too much of a princess to get my hands dirty now; who knows what I would've been like with my entire upbringing informing my work ethic?

I can feel my body changing, even after just a few days of training and exertion. My muscles always ache somehow, but it's a good ache. Like my body's adjusting and growing into its new circumstances, getting stronger. More suited to Thedas, at the very least. That's one less thing to worry about.

After a few hours, I've almost forgotten about the dead man. But then I pass by the infirmary, and overhear the tally for the day. A new wave of misplaced grief crashes over my heart.

It's something I'll need to learn to handle. Death truly is pointless, but I can't escape it. Not here. Not in Thedas. Better steel my heart now, or I'll go insane within the week.

*

A dwarf who introduces himself as Gatsi Sturhald arrives just as renovations start really picking up. He's meant to be helping evaluate the buildings and structures already existing in Skyhold, beyond the obvious. I guess Cullen can't do everything himself, no matter how much he’d like to.

From Orzammar, he says. Chatty enough, if I open the conversation. Considering Varric is too much of a surface dwarf to really answer any questions about their culture, Fione and I decide he's a better candidate to satisfy our curiosity. 

For an elf, she really is more interested in human and dwarven history than I expected. 

Gatsi tells us the chandelier in the main hall is dwarven, or a good enough copy that it might as well be— just another weird piece of the puzzle that is Skyhold. He finds an arrow on the roof, and Fione confirms it's elven. She keeps it for herself, saying she'll show it to Solas later, but it just brings up more questions. 

How have elves, dwarves, and humans all managed to work together to build this place? Not even taking into account the various human civilizations through the ages: Orlais, Ferelden, Tevinter? Chasind? Avvar? Did it pass from culture to culture, each one building on top of the previous' foundations, or did they work together, somehow, during a period of history lost to the ages?

Fione and I discuss it in length, and Solas doesn't seem to mind us sitting in the little space he's claimed for himself. I catch him watching Fione a few times, a trace of fondness in the slight quirk of his lips. 

As safe it feels to spend time with Fione, I recognize the risks as well. Even when I was alone, working alongside the civilians, I felt the prickle of being watched on the back of my neck. Leliana likely has spies keeping their eyes on me, reporting my every move to her and the rest of Fione's advisors. I can't begrudge them for it — I'd do the same, in their shoes — but it doesn't stop the resentment from bubbling. 

Even if they have cause and are only doing what's logical, I doubt _anyone_ would take kindly to being mistrusted. I'm certainly not special in that regard. Not a sinner, but not a goddamn saint, either. 

I'll get over it eventually. 

Probably.

After a while, Fione manages to procure a few books for us from the people working in the library — and they're in top condition, she promises — and we read together once our bodies are too spent to do anything else. We absorb history and theory at the same time, and it's a little refreshing to be with someone whose exposure to these things mirrors my own. Fione explains that being First left her with little opportunity to really study other cultures, though she had always wanted to. _Shemlen tales_ , her Keeper had called them, scolding her for trying to keep books on anything but old elven legends.

"I love my culture with all that I am, truly," Fione explains, fingers tracing the spine of a collection of Ferelden legends, "But I wanted _more_ than what they let me have." 

Her curiosity is a bright and bubbling thing, bursting out of her. It's infectious, and I can't help but be drawn to her questions, her thoughts, her wild tangents. It's like talking to someone I've known my whole life.

Sometimes Solas interjects to correct us or provide us with answers we wouldn't have found otherwise. Fione engages him as an equal, and for once I see a side of him that isn't bogged down by my exhaustion or my frustration. 

He's just a guy, chatting and making jokes and following Fione's thread of conversation with an ease that suggests lots of practice. Maybe he isn't so bad, you know, outside of training. She's almost giddy too, like there's a secret between them that I'll never be able to parse out. Every once in a while Solas will say something, and she'll blush, the skin underneath her tattoos going a _very_ cute pink. I don't comment.

If Fione likes him, then maybe I should give him a chance. I haven’t known her for very long, but I suppose it's healthy for me to trust someone else's judgement.

*

The afternoon sun inches across the sky like molasses, but even so, all good things must come to an end. Eventually a scout drags Fione away, saying something about Josephine needing a mediator between her and Leliana's arguments regarding the decorations. Whether taupe is a spring color, or something equally boring. I give her a sympathetic smile just as she disappears into the main hall.

I'm left sitting on the ground surrounded by a circle of newly acquired books — many still unopened, for later — with Solas in his comfy looking chair. We'd commandeered a throw rug for comfort and situated ourselves at the foot of his desk for ease of casual conversation, but now I just feel awkward. Considering our height difference, I really have to crane my neck to talk to him.

Solas doesn't even wait a minute before pouncing. 

"I have a theory."

I carefully shut the book open on my lap. I've only known him for like a week, but I can already tell this is going to be a long, taxing conversation. Settle in, Cara.

" _Do_ you now?" 

He hums his assent. "How much have you learned about the Fade, so far?"

There's a strange cadence to the way Solas asks questions, like he cares more about the way you'll answer than the answer itself. I have no idea what that means for me, or for anything else. Can't judge him for it, considering all I've done since arriving here is study people. Survival instinct, I guess. Maybe it's something we have in common.

"The basics from Dorian," I say, "and the rest I know from you. And my nightmares."

"How have they been, as of late?" Solas looks at me with something akin to actual concern in his eyes. Is it for me, or the Inquisition? Are we becoming _friends_? Maker forbid.

"Better, now that you're there," I say, deciding there's no use lying. I realize I'm still a little bit snappy around him. I must seem like an ungrateful bitch. "Um, _thank you_ , by the way. You're helping a lot."

"It is necessary," Solas answers right away, but I do catch the way his expression softens. "Most of my life has been spent wandering the Fade. You can learn a great many things there, if one knows how to look." 

"Considering I've only found demons so far, I imagine most mages don't quite see it that way."

I already had the feeling that Solas is a weirdo even among mages, and this just confirms it. Based on the way everyone else talks about the Fade— and the way they talk about Solas— I'm guessing this isn't a very common field of study. I wonder if the wandering hermit part has anything to do with that.

Two worlds pushed together, each side getting only a taste of the other, never fully understanding, always at risk.

It's a fucked up existence for those living on the other side. I imagine Solas feels kinship with them. The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil and weren't allowed to join Thedas. Like window shopping for eternity. Like how a lonesome apostate can see society but never really _touch_. 

"No, they do not." Solas' voice carries a thousand different emotions, converging all at once. "The Chantry's teachings would label me a heretic. As you're well aware of now, there is risk in being an apostate. It is only by the grace of Seeker Cassandra and our dear Inquisitor that I am protected. And, of course, my usefulness."

A life where your worth is contingent on how you can be effectively used by the people above you. The thought stings, familiar, like a scab in the closed off corners of my memory is being picked off. 

"Usefulness can get you pretty far."

Solas nods, lips pulled tight. 

"It can indeed."

 _Okay._ Uncomfortable. I would _very much_ like to keep this conversation moving. Time to give him exactly what he always wants: the chance to lecture a willing listener.

"So you walk around the Fade and just… what, watch people's memories?"

"Spirits flock in places with a great deal of history. They press against the Veil, fascinated by the events of our world. I have seen them reenact the bloody past of ancient wars, both famed and forgotten. By journeying through ruins and battlefields, I can see the dreams of lost civilizations."

His voice takes on this pensive quality, like he's reciting poetry rather than just telling me about his own experiences. There's a rhythm to it too. It'd be hauntingly pretty, if I wasn't too busy processing what he's saying.

"So any place that's old enough will have a story you want to hear."

"Indeed." Solas stares up into the upper levels, watching the ravens that flutter through the rafters. I wonder what Skyhold could have told him by now, if he wasn't busy babysitting me. "Places that can withstand the rigors of time, or are steeped in blood. Both attract spirits, and as such have shown me many things."

"But all of it is in the past, not the future," I point out. 

"Yes, and being there to see events through your eyes is not the same as watching the remnants of a thousand year old dream in the Fade."

"What's the difference?" I ask. It's a bit strange that I feel like I have a better grasp at my visions than I do in the realm I go to when I sleep. "My dreams have been… blurry. Yours might be a bit different."

"Likely I see with more clarity than you, yes, but not so much clarity as in your visions." Solas taps his fingers on the chair, head tilted. "It is like you are being shown a memory as it was presented, rather than a spirit mimicking the swell of emotions tied to them."

"Facts, not memories, which are fallible," I say, "Something I know all too well."

I try not to feel offended at the fact that Solas looks almost shocked that I'm following his train of thought this well. In all fairness, I haven't exactly given him much reason to consider my intelligence before today. 

"Precisely. I was able to get a sense of the kind of Fade energy that surrounded us when I was pulled into your vision." Solas pauses for a long moment, and then continues. "It was… unlike anything I've seen in a long time."

How _old_ is this guy? He makes it sound like he's been reincarnated at least five times.

"But you've seen it?"

"Remnants of it, in the Fade." Solas' eyebrows pull together in thought. "I will have to study it further, and research other possible sources, but I am fairly certain."

I wonder if he'll want a flesh sample, too. I could think of a few people who'd be willing to carve off a piece of me.

"I'll try to have my visions near you then." 

Solas chuckles, and it's an odd sound. Nice, but odd. 

"If you would be so kind."

Now or never, I guess. I might as well prod him for what he's worth right now, while he's riding the high of spending an afternoon with a certain pretty elf, and I'm still in his good graces well enough to draw laughs out of him. 

"So what kind of magic is this? And what's the rest of this theory? Don't keep me in the dark here, buddy."

I shit you not, Solas puts on what I can only describe as his game face. I hold back my snort. No one else in this plane of existence would find that funny.

"Time does not work quite the same in the Fade. It distorts it and bends it to its will. It is possible that something powerful— whether a spirit, or a collection of spirits— is sending you these glimpses through the Veil."

"Could they _do_ that? See things that haven't happened yet?" I ask, but I get the feeling he'll say something speculative and vague.

"I would say no, but considering our Inquisitor had a run in with dangerous time magic not long ago, I would not rule it out," Solas notes, and he probably catches the way my eyes widen into dinner plates. 

"Time magic? Like… actual time travel?"

"You'll have to ask Mr. Pavus for the specifics, as it was he and his former mentor who developed the theory, but it is the general consensus that he and the Inquisitor were sent forward in time and witnessed a reality in which Corypheus had won." 

The dragon's roar reverberates in my memory, more terrifying in the flesh than in any vision. Snow stained red with blood. The massive boom as the trebuchet sent a mountain to bury us. The way the people describe the Red Templars, grotesque monsters more solid, glowing lyrium than human. The lives lost at Haven. What if Corypheus _does_ succeed?

Hopefully I'll be able to stop that from happening. That's something I have a modicum of control over, at the very least. Powerlessness doesn't sit well with me.

"I'm guessing it wasn't a very pleasant experience."

"I'll spare you the details, but no. It was catastrophic." There's an edge of sadness there. Regret? Fione must have confided a lot in him. "The Veil was weakened significantly by the Breach, and though it is more stable now it is still not what it once was. There are still an abundance of rifts all across Thedas. Perhaps unfamiliar magicks have slipped through, so to speak. Reawakened."

My mental syllabus just increased a thousandfold. And going off what I know so far, in-depth study of types of magic that aren't Circle-sanctioned is going to be a challenge. At least I can ask Solas about the Fade, and Dorian about this time magic he seems to know so much about. 

A lot of research into the unknown, then. Just my luck that I’ve ended up the key to a bunch of confusing, untested types of magic. Fione must feel the same way.

"I have some thoughts on what is corking your magical ability as well," Solas adds, and that fully piques my interest.

"Corking? So I don't just… suck?" My eyebrows furrow. I had already resigned myself to being terrible. "There's something stopping it?"

"As I've said, I sensed a great deal of power when I first caught sight of you in the Fade. Your connection to it _seems_ strong, and yet you cannot draw from it with ease. It is unlike other untrained mages, whose magic is a danger only insomuch as they cannot control it or fight against demons. A child's magic manifesting would, to my understanding, thrash wildly. Yours is bottled."

That explains why everyone who knows I'm a mage seems to be treating me like a loaded gun. Based on everything they know about untrained mages, it’s only a matter of time before I go off by accident, and no one wants to be within that blast radius. 

"Are you suggesting that it's a… mental block? I'm holding myself back?" Typical that the biggest obstacle to my own salvation is just myself. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, if I look hard enough, but that'd just make the rubber band around my head tighten.

"That is one possibility." The corner of Solas' lip goes up. "It is rare, however, almost impossible."

That means he doesn't favor that theory then. At least Solas doesn't believe I'm fully self-sabotaging. That would've made training so much more _fun_. Like, _walking on gravel barefoot_ fun.

"I have noticed something peculiar, by observing you in the Fade while you are awake." Okay, then. Kinda creepy, but I let him continue. "The Fade around your waking form is more solid. Less mutable than it should be, given normal circumstances. That might be what is hindering you from calling upon your connection to it."

I'm slowly going into information overload, but I push through for Solas' sake. I'm not about to admit to him that all this thinking about the nature of my being is starting to give me a headache. And even then, I can't tell if that's just my lack of brain power or the pain that comes with trying to access the parts of myself that are locked away.

Likely the latter, if whoever's giving me the visions is responsible for that too. Maybe they're a sadist.

"But that still doesn't rule out the possibility that I might be affected the same way a young mage would be just holding back their powers," I point out.

"A mage that resists the use of their magic so foolhardy often ends up more susceptible to demons, and more likely to—"

Fuck _me_.

"Explode." 

Nice to know I actually am a ticking time bomb with like a dozen different possible detonators, not just the vessel-for-some-random-demon way. Solas doesn't seem too concerned about the panic attack brewing in my chest right now.

"Which may still happen to you, if whatever is anchoring you to this world desists suddenly, or is overcome by your suppressed magic. You dream normally, and have been visited by demons, and so spirits have no problem shaping the Fade around you while you sleep. It is a phenomenon unique to your waking hours."

"So basically… I'm weird." Nothing new, I think. The descriptor doesn't strike me as particularly unfamiliar. "Does that mean you can't… perform spells around me? Dorian's been able to."

"The effect is not very wide. At most, it seems to be restricted to you alone. Subtle, but I can feel the difference when I draw close. And I felt it strongest when I was pulled into your vision."

So Solas could be walking right up to my face while I'm awake and I wouldn't know about it? Extra creepy, but if it gets me some answers then he can be as creepy as he wants. Whatever.

"You mean my visions are a manipulation of the Fade?"

"It's magic like any other, is it not?" Solas says, and it dawns on me that I must be the human equivalent of an interesting puzzle to him. "That means you may be experiencing the ill effects of your visions. Wherever these visions come from, the power bleeds through the rest of your magic, affecting it in ways we have yet to understand."

"So we study it." I chew on the inside of my cheek. "Study _me_."

"I did spend some time studying the mark on our Inquisitor's hand. While yours will be much harder to pin down without a physical manifestation, I'm sure we'll manage."

There's something reassuring about his smile, like he's certain we'll be able to piece it together with time. I can't help but envy the confidence. 

"All the while checking for signs that I'll, uh, blow up."

Logically, I should be cutting myself some slack— I've barely spent any time existing in this reality, so it's unreasonable to demand myself to be on par with someone like Solas— but _not knowing enough_ leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth and anxiety gurgling in my stomach.

"Unfortunately, we may have to consult a Circle Enchanter regarding this, as I have not had any experiences with young mages in this capacity."

Like Vivienne. She'll just relish the fact that she'll know something Solas doesn't, I can tell. I wonder how the two of those would fare in a trivia game night. I get the feeling it would end in chaos for everyone.

Another thought comes to me, and it comes out more of a grumble than anything else. 

"Or a Templar. Exactly what I need around here."

"That is why it is imperative that you learn to control your magic as quickly as you are able." Solas' entire forehead crinkles. "I would rather not have a _Templar_ assigned to stand guard again."

I have to work to keep my face neutral. There’s a whole world of opinions in his inflection that I am _dying_ to dig out, but now's probably not the time. The man has some hot takes in that big head of his. Sheer luck that Fione is a non-Andrastian and a mage— his blood pressure would've gone through the roof.

"Say that I _was_ holding myself back," I ask, mostly out of curiosity, "How would I know how to do… _that_? I'd never even _seen_ magic before."

"A defense mechanism, perhaps, from the shock of losing your world."

"A trauma response." The pieces slide into place as I parse it out. "I'm clinging onto the person I was before I arrived here, maybe subconsciously. The non-mage version of me, so the transition is, what, easier? Smoother?"

It makes more sense than I'd like to admit. If there’s one thing I know about the old me, it's that she’s not much more than a bunch of bad coping mechanisms crudely taped together. Even if he says it's unlikely, I can't help but feel like maybe there's a kernel of truth to it. Blaming my fucked up brain somehow makes me feel better than having no answers at all. 

"Magic is controlled by your will, which you have in abundance. Much like how Spirits can shape the Fade with their will, mages manipulate their connection to the Fade, and thus draw forth magic from across the Veil to shape reality in much the same way. If your subconscious is at war with your conscious mind, then your will is crippled, so it is more difficult to cast. Again, this is unlikely, but I would not rule anything out just yet." 

I nod. Solas, at least, has no problem continuing this hypothetical, even if he did say it’s unlikely.

"And besides," Solas quickly adds, tone lighter, "anyone who has had the pleasure of your company for longer than a few minutes wouldn't doubt the strength of your will."

I stare up at Solas, narrowing my eyes as his carefully guarded expression.

"Are you calling me hard headed?"

The crooked way he smirks tells me all I need to know. Bastard.

"If you wish to interpret it that way."

I scowl at him, but let him have his jokes. It's my own fault that he finds pushing my buttons so goddamn entertaining. I'm like a cat who jumps ten feet in the air every time its tail gets tugged.

"So by all accounts, I should be an excellent mage," I say, "A real natural."

"And yet you aren't," Solas concludes. Oh, he _definitely_ was just waiting for the chance to say that. 

"Aren't I a special little snowflake then." I huff, throwing my head back, my palms flat on the ground as I stare up at the high ceiling. "Perfect."

"You may be able to overcome this through sheer force of will alone," He says, undoubtedly more patient than he will be once I'm actually trying to cast a spell. "It is not dissimilar to how Dorian casts; he pairs his spells with a nullification enchantment, which he has to work to overcome. Your visions are a new part of you that you have yet to adjust to, much like your magic. It is understandable that these forces are interacting in rather unbidden ways."

"So it's just a matter of getting my ducks in a row." Perfect. Easy enough, then. For some reason the phrase "improvise, adapt, overcome" springs to mind. Either it’s an actual saying or it’s deeply hilarious that I don't have context for.

"Practice often and well, and your magic may right itself, in time."

"And if it doesn't?" I cock my head to the side. Even with all our theorizing, I can't muster up the optimism required to agree with him. 

Solas shrugs. "Then we collect more data, and find another solution."

"Sounds simple enough." 

"We must also consider how they may be related. Perhaps your visions are impeding your waking connection to the Fade, or corrupting it somehow."

I straighten up, thinking it through. "The visions might be the cork itself, and if I fix my magic—"

"You may lose them, though with their sparse frequency it might be difficult to gauge."

I bunch my lips to the side. It's clear he wants to consider me as a single phenomenon, with all these bits as symptoms rather than the root. But he's missing pieces — completely my fault, to be fair — and I don't have it in me to admit that I have a strange woman living inside my head. 

Would that change his hypotheses, or leave him even more stumped than before? I get the feeling he's not the type to be moved to religion. 

I settle with saying, "That doesn't quite jive with the idea that I'm holding myself back."

"No, it doesn't. I am merely considering the possibilities." Solas lets out a heavy breath, and it goes through his whole body. I'm going to have to let him slip on his age eventually, because there's something in those old bones that isn't quite adding up. 

With that, he stands, and I follow suit. Speaking of age, sitting on the ground for prolonged periods of time leaves me with aches that feel almost unfair. 

"I guess we'll see, with time."

I lift my arms up to the sky and stretch out my back. I'm about to start planning the rest of my day in my head when he goes over to the piles of his belongings on the other side of the desk and picks up his staff.

Oh _no_.

"Which we may not have an abundance of." Solas nods towards the training yard, a devious little smile on his lips. "Come, my lady. You've rested enough."

I frown, the whole nine yards. A pout, sunken eyebrows, a wrinkled forehead, my award-winning glare. And he _laughs_. I repeat: bastard.

I follow him down the stairs anyway.

*

Fione dubbed it the War Room. 

I wanted to laugh at first; the name had sounded far too serious for what’s ultimately just a room with a huge table, but once it dawned on me that the Inquisition truly had armies and influential nobles at their disposal I realized its necessity. They had far too much riding on their shoulders.

Fione could make empires rise or fall with her decisions. And none of the advisors take that lightly. That's why I'm sitting here, once again surrounded by the backbone of the Inquisition while I mentally prepare myself to get probed and prodded.

Not that they won't already know the answers to their questions, considering I've been tailed day and night the entire time I've been with the Inquisition. Leliana probably has a detailed chart of when I use the privy. 

I'd probably take it all more seriously if the hallway we passed through wasn't half crumbled. Might be a safety hazard, that. I hope they decide to prioritize it.

Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine are seated together on the far side of the table, and Fione urges me to sit next to her. There are more empty seats around us, likely for visitors or other advisors when needed. Cassandra chooses to stand, leaning against the wall to my right. 

"How are you finding Skyhold, Lady Cara?"

Josephine is the first to speak. I realized fairly early on that she was the most pleasant out of all of them, mostly because that was quite literally her entire purpose. To be pleasant enough to smooth over any issues that may arise. It was a different kind of warfare. I quickly learned to appreciate her style, because it meant that _she,_ at least, wasn't going to murder me outright if I messed up.

I suppose they think she has the best chance to win me over, since she's the only person in this room other than Fione who hasn't threatened to kill me. Yet. 

"Considering the only other places I remember were either being besieged by a dragon or covered in two feet of snow, I'd say I'm rather enjoying myself." Pushing my luck with jokes might not win me any favors, but after my conversation with Iron Bull, I am _not_ in the mood.

"You still remember nothing?"

"It comes back in bits and pieces," I admit, "I remember I'm just shy of thirty, and I had a mother, but she left long before I grew up."

"Only that? Nothing else of your childhood, or your home?" Leliana is studying me intently, likely trying to figure out whether I'm lying. I'd imagine she's good at that.

"If I try to remember, I get a fearsome headache. Forgive me for not splitting my head open trying to regain my memory."

"Do you believe it is Andraste?" Cassandra interjects then, "Surely if Andraste was willing enough to send us the Inquisitor, she could have sent you as well."

The Maker. Andraste. Elgar'nan or whoever else the elves worshipped. My own God could have sent me, for goodness' sake. Theology and debating the finer points of religion and divinity probably wasn't a treasured hobby for me back home, and that definitely isn’t about to change. My shoulders curl in on instinct.

"I didn't know who Andraste was before a week ago."

"You didn't know much of _anything_ , as I recall." Fucking Cullen. I resist the urge to give him a stink eye. His hand is _still_ on his sword; I'm starting to wonder if that's just a nervous tick or if I'm a special case. 

"Yes, thank you for the reminder, Commander."

The corner of his lip quirks up for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction.

"You're most welcome."

Leliana steers us back, addressing Cassandra, "You are suggesting that perhaps she was also sent by Andraste through a rift, to help us?"

"Is it so far-fetched?" Fione says then. I notice her fists are balled up on her lap, clenched so tight her knuckles have turned white. I reach over and ease her fingers loose with my own, but when I try to pull back she holds my hand there, gently.

"You are not even Andrastian, Herald," Josephine points out.

"Well, _someone_ sent her here and gave her the ability to see the future." Fione's bottom lip trembles as she grips me tighter, and it's the most vulnerable I've seen her. Did she notice the spies? Have they already beat her down with doubts in private? Something about now, seeing me questioned, brings it out of her. Fighting for the girl from her dreams. 

Has she told them about that, in detail? Or has she dropped the subject entirely since her brief mention of it in Haven? Surely it's something that should come up in this conversation, and I doubt someone like Leliana would have forgotten, if she knew. There's also the matter of what Solas told me: the fact that I came from the sky.

And yet, it feels wrong to confess these things without Fione offering them up first. I keep my mouth shut.

Josephine ponders Fione's argument for a moment. 

"It does fit our narrative quite nicely, Leliana."

I should probably get a say in this, shouldn't I? Am I on trial? Am I supposed to be defending myself and my honor? They hadn't exactly told me what I was sent here for, other than vague statements on my fate. Any questions I had likely would've been handwaved away. 

I straighten my back. 

"Well, either way," I say, "I don't control when my visions come, so you're going to have to wai—"

The last thing I think before lightning cracks over my sight is that this Andraste certainly has a wicked sense of humor.

The first thing I notice is the smell. It's rancid, like rotting flesh, and the wetness that comes from days and days of endless rain. Wet earth and mud and muggy air. Thunder rumbling the sky, shaking me to my core. My feet float just above a small patch of solid ground, and for once I am goddamn grateful for the stupid vision's choices.

Of course, that’s when it decides to go and prove me wrong.

They shamble out of the water around me, bones clacking against one another as they move, hollow skulls somehow staring right through me. Water drips from the mold-eaten clothes that still cling to their bodies, and I would gag if I could move. 

Try as I might, I can't force myself out of it. While my other visions were full of motion— almost nauseating— here I'm frozen, suspended two feet into the air, and I brace myself as they close in on me.

Soon I'm surrounded, and everything goes dark.

The scene changes and I find myself in the corner of a dank cell. It smells awful, with wooden benches and rainwater dripping from cracks in the ceiling. And then… the rest of the room comes into focus. Soldiers in Inquisition uniforms. Injured, roughed up, but definitely alive. One, two, three, four, five— 

I come to with my head in Fione's lap, her fingers running through my hair, and the rest of the advisors on their feet, as if they'd all just jumped out of their seats. Stunned.

Fione helps me stand, and eases me back down into the chair. God, my fucking _head_. It feels like maggots are trying to crawl out of my pores. Can these things come without pain, or is that the price I have to pay? Are these visions slowly rotting me from the inside out?

"The… There's a place here that was hit by a plague? Recently?" I say carefully. The information is there in my head even though I didn't hear it in the vision. "What's that called— a marsh? Like a bog. Lots of water and—"

"The Fallow Mire." Cullen's jaw is clenched, like he's in pain too. "And those were—"

"Undead." Fione finished, "Lots of them."

"And the missing soldiers." There's a rush of relief in Cullen's voice, almost disbelieving. "They're alive."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Hard. "Well, keep that in mind then, if you ever head that way."

Cullen goes to look over the map on the table, moving some tokens with a shaky hand. "That was to be your next mission, in any case." 

"Oh dear, that was a bit disorienting."

Lady Josephine's voice is still tightly controlled, polite, but with the pitch hitched slightly up. 

I blink at her. Fuck. Right. This poor fucking diplomat stuck in the middle of all this weird shit. I suppose it's a little like throwing a kitten in with a bunch of war dogs and expecting it to handle the bloodshed the same way.

"My bad, Lady Josephine." Curse this wobble in my voice. "You weren't there the first time."

"We have to prepare for the possibility that you have one of these visions in a crowded room of civilians. Or worse, _nobles_." Leliana goes straight to business, already steady and seating herself back at the table. "We do not know how many will be able to see it, but even just one would birth gossip enough to spiral out of control."

"Whoever's sending me these visions sure has a fucked up sense of humor."

"Indeed." Leliana smiles sweetly, and then cocks an eyebrow right at me. "And it is rather convenient that this isn't something you have to prove to us, as we can see it for ourselves."

"Almost as if that was the point." Fione snaps. And then she turns to me, and slips her hand into mine again. The contact is warm, comforting. "I'm glad you didn't have to go through what _I_ went through, if that helps."

The rest of them go silent. I'm not privy to the details of what exactly they did to Fione, but I imagine it wasn't pleasant, judging by the tone of her voice. Likely she was thrown in a prison cell too.

Once they've all come to the agreement that there's no getting rid of me, an absolute torrent of business comes rushing out. Leliana prattles on about how they'll discuss the official announcement of… what I am. How it'll affect the nobles, the Chantry, and the rumors. Support from each faction that's allied with the Inquisition apparently hangs in the balance. 

"We cannot risk her visions breeding gossip before we get word out ourselves," Leliana says, right as always. "I will not do anything without your say so, Inquisitor. Kep in mind that there is only so much I can prepare for, in this instance, but I will make those preparations nonetheless."

Josephine talks about clothes and how I can't possibly keep walking around in whatever mishmash of spares I can clobber together, and then my accommodations. Not a soldier, not a civilian, and I can't risk a vision in those crowded sleeping areas. I fight for a smaller room near Dorian's, which is acceptable enough for her. 

Cullen doesn't have much to say, but does mention that perhaps Solas could help study the magic of my visions more closely. Whether the others believe my powers are divine intervention or not, it's magic all the same. Apparently he can tell, being a Templar and all. He then insists that I come to him directly should anyone threaten me.

I have to bite back a laugh. How quickly people's hearts change around here.

Leliana says I need not be included in strategizing they'll have to do when it comes to the politics of it all, and as fascinating it would be, I'm glad she gave me an out. Fione dismisses me after that.

The Oracle of the Inquisition. Doesn't slide off the tongue as well as Herald, but I'll take what I can get. 

Josephine escorts me out of the War Room and whispers something to a young elf girl waiting in her office. 

Once Josephine turns back, the girl shows me to the room Josephine apparently already picked out for me. How she was able to guess my choice, I don't know. That woman always thinks ahead. It's not quite ready, considering the amount of work that still needs to be done on Skyhold, but she tells me that the stonemasons and carpenters are due from Val Royeaux any day now. They'll have quality materials, and expertise to boot. It'll all go by much quicker once they arrive.

I'm not a picky person, it seems. There's nothing inside me stirring for more, just the innate need to take care of what I already have, so I simply thank her. She hands me a bag of clothes: still mostly basic shirts and breeches, but less threadbare than what I arrived in Skyhold with. They'll keep out the cold much better, and I can use the old ones to sleep in since I'll likely have blankets anyway. 

The clothes I arrived in are still stuffed into the bottom of my pack, filthy and ripped in places. I wonder if I could wash them.

The elven girl bows low when I thank her. The way she moves makes me think she's more than just a serving girl or a maid. Like a personal assistant or whatever. There's a sharpness in her eyes.

Right before she disappears, I ask her name. She says it's Maya.

*

Fione leaves for the Fallow Mire to rescue the soldiers from my vision before I get the chance to get her alone again. It seems being the Inquisitor means you're quite in high demand. She leaves all reconstruction efforts in the capable hands of her advisors, having decided her skills are more valuable elsewhere.

I know there's a conversation in our future. About what, I'm not exactly sure. I've been meaning to ask her about her dreams— if I've been in any recently, for starters— but I've felt too awkward to ask. Is weird Fade shit a normal thing for mages to talk about? Or is it one of those cultural taboos I'll never learn unless I mess up?

Cassandra tells me it's because it'll be a while before Skyhold is in shape to be the base of the Inquisition, to be anything more than a campsite, and Fione's no use here when she could be doing work in the field. I try to believe them.

Solas, Cassandra, and Vivienne go with her. She says goodbye to me in the courtyard the morning she goes, all bright eyes and dimples and arms around my shoulders. I pretend it doesn't bother me when she walks out of the gates and I feel her fade into a tiny pinprick of energy.

Dorian stands with me for some time, his hand in mine. I get the feeling that he's there for me rather than for Fione herself. I must look like a mess or something, like a woman sending her husband off the war. She won't even be gone a month, but I can't explain the melancholy in my heart.

Eventually even Dorian decides to give me some space, and murmurs something about seeing me at dinner. Cole replaces him not long after.

"Secrets whispered beneath breaths, like the promises mother used to make." Cole's voice is soothing, innocent, despite everything. "It's all jumbled, shut behind a heavy stone door. Why can't I reach it?"

Nothing he says makes sense to me right now, my brain wrung dry from reaching for Fione across the distance. I'm barely holding on, even after their party has disappeared past the slopes of the mountains.

I have no ideas for him. I wonder if he has any for me, somewhere in there. 

"I can't reach it either," I tell him, and he nods, as if he understands. When I turn to really look at him, he's gone.

I stay on the battlements until she's far enough away that I can't feel her at all.

Just as I step away from the edge, my breath gets caught in my throat and my knees give way, sending me to the ground. So much comes rushing back all at once, and my head feels like it's going to burst from the rush of information being sucked back into it.

Streets covered in concrete and garbage and gutters full of muck. Flood waters and fruit vendors and skies rolling with storm clouds. Thunder strikes and charred trees and smoke. The smell of fresh bread and the revving of cars and the symphony of honking that came with living next to a major road near a crowded market.

My world. Some of it, at least. My childhood. I grit my teeth as I force the memories to settle, the ripples sending every stray thought and emotion crashing into each other, grinding my soul to dust. Eventually a few things come into focus. Earth. I'm from Earth. My country… in Asia. Manila. My culture and schooling. I was born in… 1992. That was the year. There were no ages, no magic, no dragons. Just a number and a life. I am 28, which means that I was taken sometime in the year 2020. 

But still everything that's come is glossed over with the unnatural sheen of childhood. If I were to hazard a guess, there’s nothing past my 13th birthday. So much is still missing.

Earth. Home. My mothers' house, half in shambles, laden with cockroaches and ants and held together by pure determination and spite. Our little hovel on the edge of the world. 

Count your fingers and toes. You still have them.

 _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight_ — 

I force myself to stand, and someone else's hands grab me by my underarms and hoist me up. I vaguely register a concerned voice, asking if I'm alright. I stumble right into the person's chest the moment I'm back on my feet.

It's Krem. 

"Come on, Car," He says, grabbing my wrist and pulling my arm around his neck, "Up you get. I got you." His other arm goes around my waist and I swallow my pride and let myself be helped. My limbs feel like lead, and it takes every ounce of strength in me not to collapse again. Krem is strong, but with how short I am, my feet are basically dangling in the air. He might as well sweep me off my feet; that'd make it easier.

We're not far from the tavern, I realize. That's where he's taking me.

This place — Thedas, Orlais, Ferelden, Skyhold — is nothing like my world. Nothing like where I'm from. No one around looks like me, and I would've realized that if I had bothered to look at my reflection. Bumpy nose bridges and eyes like the sky and hair yellow like spun gold. Maybe I knew, deep down, and was putting off the inevitable. Maybe that's another reason why I've felt so out of place here, in this world of magic and dragons and mages.

I think of cracked concrete streets in messy zigzags, of shedding trees on every other corner, of tiny houses all pressed together on an urban city block. Of men barking about freshly fried foods in carts on the street and bakeries full of fresh salty and sugary bread. Schools full of uniformed girls, a sea of dark hair, and a language that is melodic and angry and _mine_.

I close my eyes and let myself be led. And in the meantime, I rush through my memory like I'm fastforwarding through a movie, trying to focus on bits of it the way I'd snatch falling leaves through the air. 

I think of my own reflection, and I remember a mirror in my bathroom. The one I shared with my mother. It was streaked and a corner was cracked through, but I see myself clear as freshwater. A young girl, no more than eleven years old, with what is unmistakably my face looking back at me. 

My eyes are supposed to be brown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAHHHH i didnt realize this chapter was LONG but there it is!!! here goes me with the amateur lore building hopefully its not too bad for someone new to this universe lmao i feel like im setting up the pieces for a chess match... longfics amirite
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoyed it!!!! comments are always appreciated n loved <3
> 
> thank you to mj for being an amazing beta idk what i'd do without you!!
> 
> if you like the fic you can [share it on tumblr!](https://sexyapostate.tumblr.com/post/630199845996593152/a-wonderful-and-painful-surrender-a-modern-girl)


	8. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't get any less confusing. Cara learns to deal with it.

Cullen is harder to ignore now that he spends his days supervising the entirety of Skyhold.

With so much to do before the keep is livable, there's no shortage of odd jobs. Sometimes it's darning socks and sheets or stuffing mattress with feathers to prepare the living quarters. Sometimes it's coating the newly crafted tables and chairs with varnish. Oftentimes it's simply clearing out the overgrowth and rubble from the many, many rooms in the castle.

I like clearing out rooms. It's not the most rewarding work, nor does it require much brain power, but it gives me some time with my thoughts and it's pretty straightforward. Considering a lot of the soldiers have returned to their drills and the skilled craftsmen are better utilized elsewhere, they let me help out.

It's a little harder now that Solas isn't around to guard my dreams. Nothing as serious as that first nightmare, but my nights haven’t been easy. I’m starting to understand what he means about my will keeping the demons at bay— thank god I'm such a stubborn ass, or I'd have been possessed my first night without the stupid bald elf taking care of me.

It also means sleep isn't quite as enjoyable as it used to be, and my body knows that. Even if I try, I physically can't manage more than a few hours of sleep at a time. Survival instincts, I suppose. Logical, if annoying.

Besides, I need time to sort out my memories. I have a feeling that if I let them stew in there without any processing I’ll go a little bit mad, which isn’t exactly increasing my chances of survival.

That's how I find myself in one of the many bedrooms in Skyhold— somewhere off the garden, at the end of a row of near identical rooms— alone and shuffling through the mess on the ground. This latest room is even more of a disaster than the others, and with the late afternoon sun streaking in I doubt I'll be able to finish before it gets dark.

My prediction proves correct, the sun going down without any regard for my desire to be able to see around the godforsaken room. Thankfully there's a torch nearby, and I walk down the hall to light it with the brazier they'd placed in the middle of the garden.

I'm about halfway through when Cullen strides through the door. 

He's bereft of any of his scouts and runners, and looks a mix of curious and ready-to-strike-in-case-someone's-being-bad. No other way to describe it, because I can literally see the second emotion drain from his eyes when he realizes it's me.

"Commander." I'm too focused on dislodging a rather large bit of wood—which I'm pretty sure used to be part of a desk—to greet him properly. Thank god for gloves, or else I'd be covered in splinters by now.

"What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I shake my head in mock disbelief as the wood gets caught on something. "I'm clearing out the room."

"By yourself?"

"Yes?" I turn to face him, and can't help the way my lip curls down when I notice he's blocking the doorway. "Is that a problem?"

That's when I catch proper sight of him, and nearly stumble back. He looks, _forgive my language_ , like complete and utter shit. Despite the massive width his furry pauldrons give him, he looks just about ready to collapse. There are dark circles under his eyes, and once the perceived danger had passed they had glossed over, like he wasn't seeing me at all.

I'm fairly certain if I poked him he'd sway and drop, just like that. Looks like I'm not the only insomniac around here.

"It is dangerous to do this alone," Cullen manages. He clears his throat, like he understands just how ridiculous he sounds.

I think back to the man who died. Three more people have fallen since then, but they've all lived. That's not going to help my case though, but I know he's thinking about it. Regardless, I'm not on some platform fifty feet off the ground. I'm in a room. Stupid man. 

"I can handle a bit of manual labor, Commander. Really put my back into it, if I have to. You don't have to worry about me." As if to prove a point, I push my way past him and deposit the wood into the 'maybe' pile in the hallway.

True to my hypothesis, the poor man sways on his feet.

"It is not mere concern. If you are injured under my watch then I am liable." There's an edge of seriousness in his voice that almost makes me think he believes it.

"Good thing I'm not under your watch," I point out, going back into the room. "It's just some debris. The building is sound. Nothing is in danger of collapsing."

A few beats of silence pass, and even though I'm not looking at him I can see him survey the room in my periphery. This is one of the most structurally sound wings in Skyhold, even without the repairs. 

Eventually he decides to take another stupid route. 

"Then I will stay and assist." Cullen barely manages to take a step forward before I move into his space and plant a gloved hand flat on his chest plate.

"You’ll pass out and hit your head on the ground if you keep this up." I stare him down, which would be comical with the height difference if I wasn't so peeved. Thankfully he seems to be absorbing what I say. "And I would rather carry a bunch of rotting wood than your sorry ass out of here."

He bristles at that, and his face goes back to the state I'm most familiar with: lemon wedge right in his mouth, the sourpuss motherfucker.

"That will _not_ happen."

I push back against him when he tries to move. Either he's even more exhausted than I thought or there's no fight left in him.

"When's the last time you slept? Because I know sleep deprivation when I see it."

"That is none of your concern."

Cullen's eyebrows furrow, and he glances to the side to avoid my gaze. Caught him. I can't help but feel a surge of pride; he's not the most difficult to read, but it always feels good to know you've got a person pinned.

"Isn't it? Because if I’m gravely injured trying to haul your armored ass into your tent, then you're _liable_ for that." 

Silence, and for a moment all I can hear is the crackle of the torch and our shared breathing. Hopefully he doesn't see the same thing in me, because then I'd have to stop working _and_ admit to being a hypocrite. 

But just then, he completely deflates, and all the fight goes out of him with a heavy sigh. 

When he looks back at me, there's a fondness in his amber eyes I cannot for the life of me understand. My pride melts into utter annoyance. Just when I thought I had him.

"You are impossible," He whispers, just barely audible, his voice giving away to the huskiness of exhaustion. The corner of his lip curls up in a half-hearted smile, and it tugs at his scar.

 _Alright_ then. I am going to pointedly ignore the stirring in my gut. That's the sleepiness talking, surely.

"Damn right I am," I say, but there's no fire in it. I turn my back to him and go back to looking around the room. "Go to sleep. Skyhold will still be standing tomorrow."

"I will hold you to that," His voice is still impossibly soft and downright infuriating.

I bite back the urge to scream. I hate men, and I hate being attracted to them. Nothing good ever comes out of it.

"I'll keep watch myself."

He doesn't say anything after that. I keep my back turned until I hear the sounds of his footsteps round the corner and fade completely. 

Despite… all _that_ , the possibility that he's keeping such close tabs on me because I'm a dangerous _apostate_ lingers in the back of my head. I have to remember that regardless of how friendly these people seem, I'm still a living weapon to them. Never mind that Fione and Solas and Dorian are all mages, because they're well-trained.

I'm unpolished. All this magical energy stuffed into a single woman, and they're waiting for me to explode.

Cullen certainly seems like he expects to get front row seats to it.

I push the thought away. No use dwelling on it. He's certainly kinder now, in his own way; that's a fact I can't dispute. I start picking out the unsalvageable bits of debris with nothing to keep me company save for the single torch and dumping them in a spot outside to be taken away in the morning. I work until my muscles ache and the night air chills the layer of sweat on my skin.

I decide I can't discount the possibility that they're right. I'm too new to this world to be sure. And, well, if they expect me to go out with a bang, then maybe I'll try and take a few of them down with me. Perhaps I’ll start with Cullen.

  
  


*

Skyhold blooms into what I feel she was always meant to be: a place of refuge and progress, somewhere to push the world towards a better future. Merchants and carpenters and stonemasons and painters and glass workers arrive in droves, desperate to become a part of something greater. Skyhold becomes a pilgrimage, and soon repairs move faster than even Cullen could've hoped.

The road weaves through the mountain, vines of dried earth against the stark white snow, and soon the Inquisition's influence bleeds out into the lands surrounding Skyhold.

It feels good to be part of something, to know my hands contributed to a worthy cause of this magnitude. My life on Earth would have never been this grand.

Krem decides rather quickly that I'm utterly hopeless, and makes it his mission to integrate me into the ever evolving ecosystem of the Herald's Rest. Apparently I reek of loneliness, which I don't even have the strength to argue with. The poor man said I was stinking up the whole castle.

"Can't be healthy spending all your free time with that Tevinter," Krem says over matching tankards of ale after a full day of hauling cargo into the keep. 

I narrow my eyes at him.

"Krem. _You're_ from Tevinter." 

Krem wags a finger at me, shaking his head. "Not like your prissy pants over there."

"Of course not." I laugh, taking a sip of my ale. It tastes dreadful. "But you're about the same amount of annoying."

The Rest has turned into a beast of its own in the short time Skyhold's been occupied. The Chargers take up a large table on the ground floor when they aren't doing drills or out on missions. Sera is perched on the second floor, legs swinging between the railings. Varric and Blackwall haven't arrived yet—it's apparently a bit early for them—but Krem tells me they spend time swapping stories and playing cards. 

"Prissy pants _is_ right here, you know," Dorian calls from his spot at the bar. He spends his time there complaining about the state of the alcohol.

I raise my glass to him, grinning. "Love you, Dorian."

Dorian scoffs, rolling his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of the back of his skull. Cabot hands him a bottle of wine, and he presses a sloppy kiss to my temple as he walks out, muttering, "You damn well better."

Stitches pulls up a chair beside me then, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So tell us about yourself, Lady Cara."

"Cut the bullshit, Stitches." Dalish places a hand over mine, and there's something hungry in her expression. "We've heard terrible rumors about you and you still haven't given us anythin' to work with. You can either tell us now or we'll drag it out of you when you're properly drunk."

A lump forms in my windpipe, and my voice feels strained as I talk around it. "What kind of rumors?"

"That you're some sort of demon," Stitches says.

I scowl, more comically than anything else. "I'm not a demon."

Not that I blame anyone for talking, considering I learned that first day the Inquisition was filled to the brim with insatiable gossips. Someone else must've heard about Solas and Fione finding me, whether it be soldiers or scouts or merchants. Even _one_ of them opening their big mouth would've been enough.

"She's not, _stupid_." Dalish whacks Stitches upside the head. "I'd be able to tell."

"With your _bow_ ," Stitches snaps, rubbing the sore spot.

"Exactly." Dalish still looks dead serious, and I take it she's not going to give up until I give her the truth. Or at least an acceptable lie. "We also heard you're a blood mage who's got the Herald bewitched."

"I'm a shit mage," I point out, knowing at least one of them would've been curious enough to check on my training at camp, "So that's unlikely."

"You've seen her cast." Stitches laughs heartily, smacking me on the shoulder. "Not sure you could fake being that awful."

I'd be offended if it wasn't true. If lying wasn't one of my strong suits, then acting probably wasn't either. Besides, Solas seems like the type who would rather murder me brutally than allow me to fake through my training.

"She coulda been putting on a show," Dalish says.

"That elf never would have agreed to that," Rocky interjects.

Now that's a guy who understands the people he's working with. I just nod, sipping my drink while these people argue over the nature of my humanity or whatever. I get the feeling I've been in this type of bar before, albeit in less magical circumstances.

"Are you a spirit then? Like that Anders fellow from the stories." Krem finally gives in and allows himself a chance to sate his curiosity. He's lucky I like him.

"He was an _abomination_ , not just a spirit," Dalish corrects. 

Krem ignores her, and just pokes my side with his elbow. "So are you?"

"I'm not—"

A large tankard slams on the other side of the table, and every single Charger slams their mouth shut. Iron Bull narrows his eye at them, and I can feel the shame spreading through the whole lot of them like a plague.

"You all have your secrets." Iron Bull manages to still be intimidating even without raising his voice, "Let the little girl keep hers."

"Fine, chief," Krem concedes, but he thunks his tankard against mine anyway, "Eventually, though, you'll crack."

"Not on your life." 

I stick out my tongue at him. Juvenile, but whatever. I might as well be in a group of children. Krem wrinkles his nose, but he breaks out into an amused smile away.

The conversation drifts away from me back to something stupid Skinner did during the day, and I'm grateful to not be the center of attention any more. I nurse my drink until it's empty, and Krem goes to get me another. 

The Iron Bull watches me through it all, and I wonder what his long game is. Surely there's something he gets out of defending me—whether it be my trust or loyalty or something else—especially now that his merry little band of mercenaries seems to like me. There's too much alcohol clogging up my brain cells to process it.

There is one thing I know. It’s not a win, nor have I proven myself to him. It’s an offer. What he can do for me in return, should I manage to win his good graces. Someone in my corner. Another voice aside from Fione's, to protect me. Perhaps not from inconsequential things like the Charger's gossiping, but all the same.

And a promise that whatever secrets I do have, he'll dig out in time.

A hint of anger bubbles and then quickly dies in my throat. Through the haze of alcohol, I tell myself it's a fair enough trade. A strategic one, in fact, if he thinks somehow getting on my good side is advantageous to him. Logical. Pragmatic. I can't get angry. I'm just another tool to be maximized. 

When I stand to leave, the Chargers take turns ruffling my dark hair until it looks a little bit like a bush. They tease me for the deep flush on my cheeks, a little darker than normal with the tan working outside's given me. 

When I pass Iron Bull at the table, I'm feeling a little brave, so I nudge his shoulder with mine, and grin at him.

"Thanks, Bull." 

His smile seems genuine, and in my alcohol-addled mind I let myself believe it is.

"Anytime, doll."

*

I've barely made my way outside before I'm ambushed by Cole. And by ambushed, I mean _ambushed_ , because he materializes right in front of me, out of thin air, and grabs me by the hand. My hazy brain doesn't even process it all until he's already got us moving.

"I figured out how to help!" There’s a frantic edge to his voice that sobers me right up. 

"Cole? What do you—"

The two of us run through Skyhold's courtyard, and he drags me down the steps towards the main entrance two at a time, all the way to the empty barn near the kitchens. If I wasn't focusing so hard on making sure my feet connected with solid ground I would've tumbled and broken several bones. And I start to pant halfway through. For a spirit unused to having a body, this kid can _run_.

On some hay bales with cards laid out in front of them are Blackwall and Varric. The two of them catch sight of us at the same time, eyes widening at the way we're barrelling towards them. We skid to a stop with barely enough space to keep from crashing into them. 

Cole has definitely run all the alcohol out of my body.

Cole grabs me by the shoulders and plops me right in front of Varric. I get the feeling if he could've dropped me _on top_ of the cards he would've.

"Varric, do you see?"

The poor dwarf looks at me in confusion, and then at Cole, and then back at me. He might be a little drunk too.

"What am I supposed to be looking at, kid?" Varric asks, "Other than this lovely lady, who I've certainly seen before."

Frustration wrinkles Cole's face, and he pushes me further into Varric's space. I'm not _that_ much taller than him, but it's enough that he's eye level with, ah, _parts_ of me. I squeak before stumbling backward. A bit unladylike, but whatever.

"You're not looking. _Look_. It's just like _her_."

"Uh, sorry about this," I start to say, my cheeks burning, "I don't know—"

Varric stands up and grabs Cole by the hand and tugs him a few feet away. He looks Cole right in the eye, and the spirit's big, grey ones stare right back at him, desperate for _something_. If only he didn't speak in riddles. 

"Kid, lay off the poor girl."

Cole's frowns deepens. "But—"

Varric grabs his hands again, and says with an air of authority, "Whatever you want to happen will happen in time."

The poor boy's entire body seems to calm down with that. I'd noticed something about Varric makes him feel more at ease with interacting with other people, like he's learning by example, so he listens to the dwarf in a way he doesn't to anyone else. Varric's probably the best teacher for that anyhow.

"Okay," Cole gives in, and then adds, "But you will see, one day."

With that, he walks away. Or disappears. Or both? I'm not sure. Either I wasn't looking or he didn't want me to remember. Or he teleported. I'm _still_ too drunk for this.

 _What does this mean, you infuriating woman?_ I think it as loud as I can. If I was a little bit drunker I might've screamed it to the heavens myself. Can you yell in your own head? I sure hope so, because this woman deserves to hear me _screeching_ right in her damn ear.

I wait.

...And nothing. Should've expected it, but it irks me all the same. 

Varric turns back to me, scrubbing a hand over his face. It's amusing how Blackwall's just pointedly decided to stay out of it. Some of the Inner Circle truly do not care for magic and spirits. Maybe they've got the right idea.

"Perhaps he thought you looked like an old friend of mine," Varric says, humor back in his voice, "You do have the bone structure. You sure you're not part-dwarf?"

I wheeze out a weak laugh, and fall bonelessly onto a hay bale. All that running's fucked me up; my legs feel like jelly. 

"Absolutely positive."

*

The night is well underway by the time Dorian finds me. I barely have enough time to catch the dark flush in his cheeks before he bodily drags me into his room, insisting with a lilt in his voice that he can't _possibly_ finish all this wine on his own. I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of me. This man is so goddamn dramatic; I love him for it.

And apparently tonight everyone just feels like hauling me around. First Krem, then Cole, and now Dorian. Not a bad selection of friends, but it's good to know they can get me to do as they please once they pour a little alcohol in me.

And it's not too different from the way everyone else treats me. I'll likely never hold my fate in my own hands ever again. Might as well get used to it.

There's not much by way of furniture aside from a desk and a bed. There's already a stack of books by door and a few of them open on the bed itself. The wine sits open and halfway finished next to two metal goblets on his desk. A single flickering candle sits on the nightstand. A night in with books and wine. Sounds like Dorian. 

"Lovely evening you had planned here," I say, planting myself on the edge of his bed. He grabs one of the goblets, fills it to the brim with wine, and then hands it to me. 

"That Archdemon truly was a sight for sore eyes, wasn't he?" Dorian picks up his own drink and sloshes it around, voice just a notch louder than normal. "I suppose they needed to knock the fledgling Inquisition down a peg or two. Restoring order in a world laden with strife couldn't possibly be enough to handle. Oh, you thought it'd be _easy_ ? No matter! I have _just the thing_ to crush all that unbridled enthusiasm."

I'm still a bit too tipsy to hold back the laugh. "You do love the sound of your own voice."

"As do you, darling. Don't try to hide it." He grins from behind the rim of his glass as he sits next to me, the thin mattress squished under our combined weight. "What would you do without my wit and charm?"

"You are a shining beacon of light in this world of darkness, my dear Dorian." 

"That's more like it. You forgot to mention how handsome I am too."

"How could I forget?" I sip the wine. It's almost _too_ sweet. "Most attractive man in the Inquisition _by far_. No one else stands a chance. Humble too."

"I'm a man of many talents." Dorian presses a hand to his chest, blinking as if to resist tears.

"Did you catch our lovely Inquisitor before she'd gone?" I ask then. I'd been spending most of my days with Sera again, and Skyhold seems emptier now without the few pulses of indecision I'd gotten used to catching from Fione throughout the day. 

Dorian purses his lips, and it's a cute sight, with his mustache all bunched up like that.

"Oh, she was doing something vastly more important than canoodling with us social pariahs, surely."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're not _that_ out of place here, are you?"

"Oh darling Cara, I sometimes forget just how ignorant you are of the deep seated distrust the rest of Thedas has for my homeland."

He's right. Knowing about things from a book could never hold a candle to his lived experiences, especially when it comes to things like cross-cultural multi-generational grudges that involve the kind of atrocities I'd heard of in Tevinter's history. I get the feeling Dorian's surprised _any_ elves here were even willing to speak to him, let alone befriend him.

Having Fione in his corner must be such a relief. But still, not relief enough, it seems. Fione is, after all, _one_ woman. One incredibly powerful and influential woman, now that she’s Inquisitor, but still.

"That explains why Mother Giselle looks at you like you've personally stolen food off her plate at dinner," I point out, and he barks out a bitter laugh.

"Ah yes, that lovely woman. Always looking for something to smite. She should've been a Templar with that disposition." 

Maybe it's wrong to weedle information out of him when he's volatile, but I can't help the curiosity. Alcohol loosens one's tongue, after all, though I doubt Dorian wouldn't readily admit to all this to me sober. 

"So people don't trust you just because you're Tevinter?"

"It's a tad more complicated than that, unfortunately. My homeland's history is bathed in their blood, after all, and I was once slated to inherit a position of power many abuse." Dorian shakes his head, shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. "I don't begrudge anyone's distrust; I'm just far less used to it than I ought be, given the circumstances."

What a disarming little pout he has, I think. The two of us really are just overgrown children, drowning our angst with melodrama and wine. God forbid something truly soul shattering happens to me while I'm here; I may never look up from my cups.

"Just be glad you're not me," I say, lowering my voice in case someone's listening in, "I've had spies on my tail for days. I think the Nightingale's just _begging_ for me to step out of line."

"What could you possibly do? Sass them to death?"

"I'll definitely end up trying, if this keeps going," I say dryly. I'm in no state to push down the surge of annoyance. "It's just… I'm not…" 

The ugly little voice in my head cuts the thought short. No, not the old witch rotting my brain from the inside out. The _other_ one. The one drinking usually drowns out. 

_You_ are _hiding something, you goddamn hypocrite. They have enough reason to think you're fucking crazy and about to blow all the time. How can you expect them to give a rat's ass about_ you _? You don't even understand_ yourself _. You're barely even a person._

My throat constricts, and it feels like none of the air I'm sucking in is actually hitting my lungs. My next words are strained as I focus on getting my voice to work, as I try to outrun the fuzziness in my ears. 

"I'm not _dangerous_!" I say, and I must have raised my voice because Dorian flinches, "Everyone seems to think I am, but I swear to fucking god, I just—"

I imagine the Iron Bull that night in the battlements. Earlier in the tavern. The way he'd leveled a steady gaze onto me, like I was a lock waiting to be picked. Like he couldn't wait to rifle around inside my head. 

Leliana talking about me like I'm a loaded gun with a faulty trigger, better safe than sorry. Insinuating that I had the skill or the motive to do all this as a way to gain their trust, and then stab them in the back.

Cullen with his hardened eyes and clenched jaw, hand on his sword, kind but never too familiar. Holding me at an arm's length. Never letting his guard down. We could be friends, if he wanted, but I'm an apostate. 

I'm a _risk_.

And everyone is strategizing around me. Calculating if the chance at reaping my rewards outweighs the potential losses. 

It's all _anyone_ has done. 

Usefulness. Everyone moved by the practicality of my visions rather than Fione's impassioned plea. Even _she_ sees me more as a dream than a person. A tool, for comfort or wish fulfillment or both. Irritation churns in my stomach, fueled by wine and exhaustion and exasperation.

"All I've done since arriving here is… wonder if _this_ is it. The day they decide I'm better off _dead_. I—" My voice hitches. "I'm so _tired_."

Dorian's eyes go glassy. I watch as he puts down his goblet and places both hands on my face, and his thumbs wipe away the wetness on my cheeks. I hadn't even realized I'd started crying, too distracted by the fact the room starts spinning.

"Listen to me." Dorian stares at me so intensely I stop breathing altogether. " _No one_ is going to kill you."

I try to smile, but it comes out watery, more tears spilling. 

"You don't have to lie to me, Dorian."

For a moment I'm scared I'd spoken so softly that he didn't hear me, but then he smiles, gentle. The sadness doesn't leave the lines around his eyes. 

"I would never," He whispers, moving a hand to brush my hair away from my face. "Fione and I would never allow it. You hear me? You have my word."

He holds my face in his hands until I stop crying completely. I'm clutching the metal goblet so tight I'm worried I'm gonna bend it out of shape. It takes a little longer for my breathing to even out, the wine sapping out whatever strength I had left, but eventually my nose clears. I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I use one hand to unpeel Dorian's fingers from my drying cheeks, and then pour myself another glassful of the terrible stuff. Maybe after this one I'll be numb enough to forget. 

Dorian follows suit, and it doesn't take long for us to drain our goblets. Heat buzzes through my limbs again, and _finally_ the corners of my vision start to blur in earnest. About time.

"Look at us," I murmur. 

"Two of the Inquisition's most suspicious members deviously plotting together over copious amounts of drink." Dorian rolls his eyes again, the corner of his lip going up in a lazy smirk. "Oh, how tongues will wag." 

I shove at him weakly.

"Let them talk. You're hotter than all of them anyway."

He tries to smile wider, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. I remind myself I'm not the only one trying to drown their problems here. I reach over and give his shoulder a squeeze.

"Either way… you seem like a decent man from where I'm standing."

"Oh trust me, my lady," Dorian says, a wry smile on his lips, "If Tevinter could've reached your world, it would've tried to conquer it as well."

"You don't seem to like your homeland very much."

Dorian's sigh is heavy, like he's exhaling his worries into the wind. 

"It's complicated."

A memory stirs. I know of my home now, of the people that surrounded me. Complex emotions start to cloud my heart—pride, shame, regret, a desire for something different, something _better_ —and I'm not sure which one is winning. 

"I think I feel that way too, about where I'm from." 

"You'll have to tell me sometime." Dorian's eyebrows pull together, but he doesn't say anything more.

"One day, maybe," I concede, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Thinking about it makes the pressure build in my temples again, and I don't need that on top of the inevitable hangover.

The anger is still there, burying itself deep in the cavity of my chest. Eventually I'll have to yank it out by the root and lose things in the process, or it'll spring forth in front of someone who won't be as forgiving as Dorian.

Whatever. That's a problem for Future Cara.

*

Dorian is, as he says, a man of many talents. One of which is somehow managing to get me to talk about simultaneously everything and nothing of note. Time must pass, because we end up drinking our fill. When we finish the bottle of wine, Dorian pulls out a small bottle of brandy from _somewhere_. It tastes horrid and he laughs when I pull a face after my first sip, but we drink it anyway.

I'm no good at telling the time without a watch or a cellphone to check. And I imagine I'm even worse when I've been steadily consuming various types of alcohol throughout the night. 

I recall vaguely that they know how many hours of the day there are, but Skyhold hasn't had any clocks as far as I've seen. D'you think Fione could find me one? Invent one? Who fucking knows around here. The fact magic and like dozen distinct fantasy cultures exist kinda throws a wrench into my theorizing of Thedas' technological advances.

Oh, right. It's probably around midnight? A little bit after? Who knows. Time is fake.

"So, did you see Fione? Before she left?" I go to take a sip, but scowl when I'm met with the bottom of my cup. I pour myself a _little_ bit more.

"She was with our lovely elven apostate. I didn’t want to intrude." Even in the low light, I can hear the eye roll in Dorian's tone. "I have the feeling our dear Inquisitor might have a bit of a crush."

I can't suppress the snort.

" _That_ much is obvious." 

"Jealous, are we?" Dorian chuckles, and I'm grateful he can't quite see me. And the fact that my cheeks are already flushed from the drinking.

"No," I say, maybe a little too quickly. "He just seems so…"

"Utterly infuriating?" Dorian supplies, "Just to you, it seems. You hold a special place in his heart. The dark corner where he keeps all his disdain."

Ugh. The idea that he's perfectly civil and decent to everyone else except me just grates on my nerves even more. Granted, we hadn't been that at odds after our discussion about my magic, but that lasted a total of ten minutes before I was back to cursing his name on the training yard, and he'd grown terse again. 

A nagging thought at the back of my head wanted to point out I deserved it; bitchiness begets bitchines, and all that. He's shifty, with suspicious origins, sure, but smart enough not to give anyone else more reason to doubt him.

What is it about _me_ , specifically? Or maybe it's simple, and he's just sick of being stuck training the incompetent woman instead of whatever work he wanted to do instead.

I toss back the last bit of my drink, completely ignoring the logical part of me trying to point out I'm nearing the blackout stage.

" _Love_ that for me."

"Fione will butter him right up, don't you worry about that," Dorian jokes, all cheeky, "He'll be more civil once he realizes it'll keep him on the good side of his lady love."

I grimace, more at the feeling of the brandy hitting my already sloshing stomach than anything else. "Eugh. Please don't talk about buttering him up. His head is shiny enough as it is."

"At least we know he bathes." Dorian mimics my expression, his nose scrunching up. "Same can't be said by half the people in this damn Inquisition. You're lucky you don't have to go into the field with them. Dreadful."

Oh god. The cold numbed my nose well enough during the trek to Haven, but I can only imagine what sort of delightful smells emanate from a group of bloody, sweaty, battle-hardened warriors in warmer climates. 

"Is it that bad?"

"Oh, it is," Dorian laments, sounding utterly tortured, "I've made a habit of standing upwind."

I stifle my giggles against his shoulder. "You poor soul."

A gust of wind blows into the room just then, sending a chill through me. Even with the high walls, Skyhold is still up in the Frostbacks. Now that I know where I'm from — and can remember the sweltering heat and muggy air I'd grown up with — having to deal with the weather was even more excruciating. Dorian wraps an arm around me quickly enough, though with his getup I can't imagine he's warm either.

"Now let's get you some sleep." Dorian uses his hold on me to pull me to my feet, plucking the goblet out of my hand. "You look just about ready to collapse. The meager little room I have is certainly big enough for the both of us."

What the _hell_ is he saying? I try to wriggle out of his arms, but all I manage is a flustered groan. I feel all my exhaustion come rushing in once I'm on my feet. He toes off his own shoes and then actually bends down himself to undo the laces of my boots.

"Was this all a ploy to get me into bed? You'll have to take me to dinner first."

"Nonsense. You're already a sucker for my charms."

Dorian laughs as he actually manages to pull my shoes off my feet. I nearly scream at the sudden chill of the floor against my bare toes. He rises and then tries to work on my belt and the outer layers of the more practical outfit I'm wearing today. I slap his hands away. 

"I can go to _my own_ room."

I feel utterly dwarfed with Dorian standing at his full height. He places his hands on my shoulders, keeping me in place, as he stares me down with a brotherly instinct I doubt I've ever seen directed at me in my life. I swallow back the knot that forms in my throat.

"Cara, I detest sap, so let me say this once." Dorian brushes a stray lock of hair from my face. "I'm quite worried you'll be wasted away by the end of the week if I don't get a good night's sleep in you, and you may feel safer with another mage by your side."

Solas isn't here. Does anyone else know of our arrangement? I certainly hadn't told anyone, but if he'd told Fione — his superior officer, technically — then Fione might've told Dorian. Fione might've told the rest of her advisors, in fact, due to the fact that I was a threat until I could reliably keep the demons at bay myself.

I'm too drunk to be thinking about this. I turn my head to the side, loathe to admit that _maybe_ Dorian is right. And god, I am _fucking_ exhausted.

"Fine." I grumble under my breath, "But I _won't_ be your little spoon, no matter how many times you ask."

Pleased with his triumph, Dorian grins as he pours water into the goblet from a jug on his nightstand and shoves it back into my hands. 

"Splendid." He runs a hand through his hair, and starts removing the more complicated portions of his outfit with ease. "But please have a drink of water first. I do not mind you in my bed, but I insist you refrain from vomiting anywhere within the vicinity. I'll never get the smell out."

*

For once, my sleep wasn't wrought with anxiety or restlessness. Having Dorian's steady warmth next to me under all those furs was enough to anchor me, or maybe it was the fact I was hammered. Either way, the Fade couldn't so much as get a foothold in me all night. I slept like a rock. 

Unfortunately that did not mean I had a pleasant morning.

The chirping birds might as well have been church bells, each little sound making my temple throb with force. My tongue feels thick and heavy in my mouth, which is sticky and sour. My limbs ached, solid like lead, and I swear if I moved every bone in my body would crack loud enough to wake the next room over.

But it was morning, which meant I had to wake up. Dorian was still sound asleep next to me, soft even snores coming from the lumpy pile on the other side of the bed. I'd managed to keep my promise to Dorian so far; I won't let any damned birds force me to break it.

With great effort, I manage to emerge from the safety of his room and greet the day.

The discomfort lasted throughout the morning, much to my chagrin. Varric was quick to notice at breakfast and made a few teasing jabs before he realized not a single word was getting through to me. The rest of them were sympathetic enough, if not nursing hangovers of their own, though Sera did whine for a minute when I told her she was much too loud to be around in my current state.

That's how I ended up on the battlements, far enough from the cacophony of noises on the ground to finally steal a moment of peace. I'd only entertained the idea of working for a moment before my body protested, so fine, whatever. I won't work today, but I won't lie down and do nothing either.

Walking is _something_. Sure, it's fucking _cold_ , and I'm halfway frozen even standing directly in the midday sun, but by my third rotation through all the crumbling towers, my headache has finally subsided to nothing more than a dull throb. Silver lining.

I'm just outside of the door to the Commander's newly acquired office when I hear it: metal scraping against wood, and the grunt of a man whose knees have just hit the floor. 

The sharp clank of armor on stone is loud enough to send me into mild hysteria. None of the guards patrolling this section of the battlements are within range, and I'm not about to send the entire castle into a panic by yelling for them. So I rush into the room, alone, and find Cullen in a furry heap on the floor.

"Commander, I—" I've barely taken a step towards him when he pushes himself up on one closed fist, jaw clenched in unmistakable agony. 

"Shut the door," He grits out, barely audible, and _objectively_ the wrong thing to do, but there's so much desperation packed into so few words that I heed his order, and slide the bolt in for good measure.

I watch helplessly, frozen in place, as he tries to muster the strength to stand, but his gloves slide against the cold stone floor and he collapses again. The sound of him falling pushes me into action.

There's a chair by his desk, but it's stacked full of random crap. Get all of it off first, Cara. I pick up the stack of books and carefully place them on the floor, grab the scrolls and shove them between things on his desk to keep them from rolling away. Make sure the path is clear of anything breakable.

But when I reach for him, Cullen shoves me off, hard enough that I stumble back a little before steadying my feet. He has some sort of independent streak going but that's just _rude._ Would he rather hang out on the ground than let my filthy apostate hands touch him?

Memories of last night sprout in the back of my head, waking the seed of anger in my heart. I'm _not_ a risk _._ I go to help Cullen again, and this time I'm not taking no for an answer.

It takes everything in me to shove my head underneath one of his arms and haul him up. A dull pain radiates in my temples and my muscles scream in agony at the exertion, straining under his weight. It doesn't help that I have to sputter to blow bits of his stupid mantle out of my mouth. I don't fucking care if he's nearly twice my size; I'll have to manage.

And I do. God—or Maker or _whoever_ —help anyone who gets between a pig-headed, iron-willed woman and her goal.

It's only a few short feet, but by the time I deposit him onto his chair my breathing has gone absolutely ragged. Is there a gym here? Do I need to start lifting? Good fucking _god_ , I’m glad I don't wear armor.

This is _definitely_ above my pay grade.

"Should I call—?" I try to say, still panting, but Cullen replies before I can get another word in, words still pressed through clenched teeth.

"No… I will not let them see me like this."

That's when I finally manage a good look at his face, and the sight of it almost knocks me off my feet. 

His skin is a ghostly pale, even in the sun, and despite the fact I'm freezing my ass off there's beads of sweat all across his wrinkled forehead. Even with his eyes screwed shut I can see the frantic way they're darting around, like he's chasing away images and flashes of something monstrous. His gloved fists are clenched as tightly as possible, armor weighing him down. There's so much tension in every part of his body that I'm scared one touch might make him snap.

There's so much pain, clear as day, but looking over him doesn't tell me what could possibly be causing it. There's no blood, no wounds, nothing pulled out of its socket and no limbs bent the wrong way. It's like his entire body's on fire on the inside.

"Are you… alright?" I ask, tentatively, teetering on the edge of another panic, all my emotions mixing uncomfortably. When he doesn't answer, I've half a mind to defy his direct orders and run to call for someone, but then he lifts his head and looks up.

It's as if his eyes are glazed over, barely catching sight of me. Like I'm nothing more than a blur.

"No, but I… I will manage." Cullen takes a steadying breath, and it's not as shaky as I expect. "I… You did not have to do that."

Take it easy, Cara. I force my breathing to even out, letting the momentary surge of adrenaline peter out of me. It gives way to exhaustion, and the unfortunate return of my hangover, pushing the rubber band back around my head. Wonderful.

And I'm not used to the look of sincere gratitude he's giving me, still mixed in with pain. Something odd stirs in my gut, an unwelcome churning leaving me breathless in a way that's unrelated to having to carry a 200 pound man across the room.

I hone it back into annoyance, and the words are out before I can stop myself.

"I'm just surprised you didn't shank me or something, what with the scary apostate touching you."

 _That_ somehow wakes him better than anything else I've said. His eyes go a little wide as he processes the situation. Me, the untrained mage of unknown origins, seeing him collapsed and nearly unconscious. He hadn't kicked me out, and he let me help him eventually. Maybe he _was_ that desperate, but he did seem to imply he knew exactly who I was when I'd entered, considering the first thing out of his mouth was an order to hide his weakness from his troops.

Cullen presses his lips together, before clenching his jaw again and glancing away from me.

"I would never have—"

"You would have, in some circumstances. I get it," I cut him off, crossing my arms, sharpening the edge in my tone just enough to maim. "I know what I am. I know what _you_ are."

I'm through with all this pretending. If they're going to unilaterally decide I'm trustworthy, then they can walk the walk. Whatever bullshit he said in the War Room about making sure I'm protected doesn't matter when all they've done is scrutinize me.

Some sick part of me feels good knowing I can get under his skin like that, driven by a juvenile thirst for vengeance that's been simmering underneath my skin since I was first dropped here. He’s an easy target, considering his nature, and I couldn't resist the jab. It's not like I can hit anyone else. _Just one,_ I promise myself, _and then no more._

I chance a glance back at him, and regret wraps around my throat. There's real remorse in his expression, crashing over him like a wave, and never before have I hated being able to see a person's heart on their sleeve more.

This is a man who has no true secrets. Everything I need to know is written on his face. The realization brings me no comfort. 

"I acted too harshly. Without cause." Cullen speaks every word to me, never breaking eye contact. "I was raised a Templar, and I have not yet been successful in truly moving past that. I hope you can forgive me, for whatever harm I've caused."

I look away.

"It's whatever, Commander." I keep my eyes on anything _but_ him, even distracting myself by pouring him a cup of water from the jug on his desk and shoving it into his hands. "As long as you know I'm not your enemy. Drink."

From my periphery, I can see that he does. Slowly. I imagine his throat bobs, or whatever it is pretty men's throats do when they take careful gulps. _Drat_.

What could possibly have caused him this much pain? Surely there's a wealth of knowledge locked somewhere in my brain. Any self-respecting adult on Earth would know at least something about warning signs of illness like this, but I have no way of accessing that information. A young teenager wouldn't know. At least, I definitely didn't.

He reaches over to drink another cup but I get there first, pouring it for him, still avoiding his eyes. There's something weird in the air and I'm not gonna be the one to shatter the uneasy silence. 

When he drains the second cup, he seems mostly stabilized. Is this my cue to leave? I've lifted my foot to take the first step towards the door when he speaks up, voice low, sounding bone-tired. 

"I suppose thanks are in order."

I'm gonna kick in his teeth. Just punch him right in the scar. This shouldn't be so _difficult_. Thedas was so much easier when I could sort people into whether they wanted me dead or not, none of this grey in-between bullshit that's leaving me fogged up and unsure. 

I'd rather be angry at him for wanting me dead. It'd certainly be easier if he acted that way all the time. I'm not in the mood to think about people _apologizing_ , especially not in such plain words.

"I'm not the type to just leave someone knocked out like that," I say. "It was no trouble."

I can still feel that weird thing in my gut that I refuse to place, so I stare at a corner of his desk. Every bit of space is covered in something—bottles, inkwells, used quills, scraps of paper, and burnt out candles—despite him having only been here for two days, at most. 

Even without looking at him I can tell he regards me for a long moment. Maybe wondering if he should dismiss me, or something. Is he technically my commanding officer? He must be. Am I officially part of the Inquisition, or do I exist in some weird in-between for him too?

The idea that I confound him just as much gives me more solace than I'd like to admit. At least the feeling's mutual.

Well, I'm not gonna let him get rid of me first. I look back at him. "You all good?"

Cullen _blinks_ at me, his eyes clear now. There's even a little bit of color back on his cheeks. 

"Yes. I—thank you."

I bow—am I supposed to bow? Who knows around here—and back away into the door nearest to me. Maybe now I'll be able to get some work done, because there is nothing less enticing right now than the prospect of spending another second inside my own head.

"Like I said, no worries." I say, voice clipped. I open the door, and turn away. "Good afternoon, Commander."

*

The moment my back hits the door, hot anger blooms in my chest and the corners of my eyes, tangling with whatever else is already there. What the fuck just happened?

 _One, two, three, four, five, six._ _Okay._

The inside of your head is not a fun place to be, but you're goddamn adult, Cara. You have to do unfun things sometimes. This is one of those times. _Focus_.

Rationalize, rationalize. Unlikely that every person you meet is a mustache-twirling villain who's out to get you for the sake of it. These are real flesh and blood people with motivations and decisions and internal logic that you can parse out. 

Maybe I'm too hungover for this, but whatever. The soft pulse of the headache is barely noticeable now, practically white noise.

I start walking towards Solas' rotunda. He won't be there to shoo me away. I'm not about to do all this mentally exhausting analysis standing outside the Commander's door.

Once my butt is fully comfortable in one of the seats on the edge of the room, I make a mental list. Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, Iron Bull. Maybe Vivienne, if pressed. 

These suspicions don't come from nowhere. They don't want you dead out of some sadistic need to shed blood. The Inquisition is, from both hearsay and firsthand knowledge, in a politically tenuous position. It's logical to assume that before Fione was named Inquisitor, a strong breeze could've toppled it. The people who fought tooth and nail to form it aren't going to risk it for one woman.

Leliana in particular is their spymaster. She's supposed to scope out people like me. Assess how much of a threat I am. So far she hasn't seen anything too dire. If she hasn't found anything by now, I doubt she ever will.

It's logical. It's sound. I'm an unknown magical entity that, as far as they're concerned, stepped out of a rift. Unknown, unstable, and dangerous magic directly tied to their main opponent, whose plans they're not in any position to predict.

Cassandra has been kind since we arrived in Skyhold, if not a little stern, though I get the feeling that's just her personality. A warrior through and through, contrasted to Leliana. If she no longer considers me a threat, then she doesn't. No trickery there.

Bull. Completely 100% out of my goddamn league. I don't know enough about him, about the Qunari, about the Ben-Hassrath, or about his relationship to the Inquisition to make any educated guesses about where I stand with him, official status as a fortune-teller notwithstanding. So I'll… put a pin on him for now. I'll deal with him later.

And just… Cullen. A storm of weird, all up in my head right now. But fuck that. Process this, Cara. You're capable of rational thought. Prove it.

Being a former Templar adds another layer of mistrust to the already tossed salad of reasons to think I'm sketchy. I've just been given more chances to see his more human side compared to the others. I can't imagine Cassandra sitting and entertaining questions about the months of the year, for example, or Leliana, but Cullen answered without complaint. Almost with _patience_. He even made a dry joke in the War Room about it. 

And he apologized. Claimed he'd treated me unfairly, even though I'm sitting here rationalizing everything he's done so far, and I haven't found any gaps in his logic. 

It's more likely he's wrestling with the same thing I am. I've acknowledged that he's dangerous, that he has legitimate reasons to worry about me, and that he's also a human being that isn't defined wholly by where he swings his sword. And he's acknowledged that I'm dangerous, I have legitimate reasons to be wary of him, and I'm also a human being that isn't capable of much magic outside of a few wobbly barriers, but might still explode on him anyway.

There. Mutual understanding. Should be simple, easy even, except it isn't. 

Somehow I feel like Earth wasn't this terribly complicated. At least there I didn't have to deal with the constant fear of maiming and murder.

None of this is even taking Fione into account. She's their leader. The one they look to for guidance, for commands, and for direction. The Herald of their Divine Prophet. I'd be naive to think all that is enough to earn their trust, especially since she never bothered exercising the healthy amount of skepticism the rest of them did, but it has to count for _something_. Right? 

_Not a threat_ isn't quite the same as _trustworthy_. I exist in the shades of grey, pushed out of the danger zone by happenstance of my conveniently timed vision. At this point it's on me to change their minds.

If I want them to let me in, then I'm going to have to do whatever it takes to prove them wrong. If only to get the satisfaction of watching them all stumble over themselves when I surpass every expectation they put on me. 

That means dedicating myself to the success of the Inquisition, whatever that entails. Whatever it takes. 

Now all I need to do is wait for a good opening to tell them about the damn voice in my head. Shouldn't be too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its a little late BUTTT its here anyway!!! more confusion and more of cara being a hot mess. love that for her. im gonna delay the next chapter possibly a week to get some plot things in order, but dont worry ive already.... somehow gotten 100k of this fic written down. so. Yeah.
> 
> thank you as always for reading/commenting!! and thank u to mj for being the best ;; <3 
> 
> if u like the fic u can like/reblog on [tumblr here](https://sexyapostate.tumblr.com/post/630199845996593152/a-wonderful-and-painful-surrender-a-modern-girl)


	9. Occupation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara finds herself gainfully employed. 

"Do you know how to cook?" 

A woman with sunken eyes, crow's feet, and the determination of a Qunari horde corners me the next afternoon and asks me this in lieu of an introduction.

Even though I've had a few days to get used to my memories, it still shocks me when I recall something with ease. _My mother was barely there so I learned how to take care of myself_ , I want to say, but that’s deeply depressing and way too much information. So instead I tell her yes, I can.

How does this woman even know who I am? And how does she know that I'm looking for a way to earn my keep? Ideally without being a nuisance to Josephine or Cullen. I might've mentioned it to Sera or Krem once, maybe twice, but still seems odd that I'm being headhunted. Is that how people get hired here? Idle gossip?

Either way, I'm not about to shoot a gift horse in the mouth. Even without memories of my adulthood, being a freeloader doesn't sit right with me. If I'm going to stay here and reap the benefits of being a part of the Inquisition—prove that I'm dedicated to the cause, not just my own survival—I had better start pitching in.

Still, the assumption that I should be doing a woman's work sticks into my side by a thorn. Logically I know it makes sense; I'm not a warrior, nor am I particularly strong. I'd rather not be scooping horse manure, so that means I should be cooking or washing or whatever. Women's work, even here. 

Cooking seems better than doing laundry. I don't even wanna think about what the combined stink of the Chargers' dirty clothes could do to a mortal nose.

The woman—who I recognize as the head cook—looks me up and down, like I'm some sort of prize cattle, and then nods sharply. "Good. Come with me." When she turns, it's clear she expects me to follow.

I barely last an hour. She kicks me out, grumbling a string of Ferelden curses under her breath. Probably telling the Maker to smite me or some shit. Cooking instant mac and cheese while your mother gallivants through places unknown apparently isn't enough experience to navigate a medieval kitchen. Who knew?

That leaves me, once again, alone with that gnawing feeling in my gut. I can't just stand around and do nothing. No one's ever gonna learn to trust me if I sit here and read by myself all day. There must be _something_ I can do.

The afternoon sun leaves Skyhold glazed a soft orange. I tap my restless fingers along my favorite stone bench in the garden, watching the new workers lay down flagstones for paths, tilling the soil. Breathing life into nothing while I sit here and brood. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and bask in the meager sun, forcing out a few barriers. Practicing with my eyes closed was Dalish' suggestion; in the heat of battle I can't rely on sight to know where to throw them up. They buzz in the air, until I'm encased in a smooth circle of magic. 

I've progressed from shapeless walls of energy to more precise, tightly coiled shields. Eventually I hope to be able to cast a barrier that moves alongside me, like a second skin. 

It's nice to have a distant goal, but it still leaves me feeling a bit worthless during the day to day. My world clearly did not value combat expertise.

Ugh. Self pity leaves a bad taste in my mouth. 

_Well get off your ass then, Cara._ Might as well just go see the ambassador. Now that I know a little bit about my life back on Earth, and the kind of jobs that mattered there, I have a chance at finding… something. Surely coming from a world entrenched in comforts means I know a thing or two about administrative work. It stands to reason that Lady Josephine would best know where to put me.

I push myself up off the bench, and the barriers shimmer around me as I break through them. 

There are two doors between the main hall and Josephine's office because of the staircase leading down into the basement, and I thank the stars for it. Nobody has to see just how long I stand there in that small stone square, forcing the tightness in my chest to release a bit.

A pathetic moment of weakness, something I was sure I had outgrown long ago. I'm an adult, for fuck's sake. This shouldn't be scary.

When I finally open the door and step inside, I put on the most pleasant voice I can manage. The last thing I need is to accidentally step on the lady ambassador's toes.

"Ambassador Montilyet?"

Her eyes flick up for a moment before dropping back to her parchment, quill never stilling.

"Oh, Lady Cara. Come in, please. How may I help you?"

God, how do I do this? Acquiring a job was surely more convoluted and anxiety-inducing back home, but my stomach still churns unpleasantly.

"Do you need… help? Here, in whatever you do." My hands start to sweat. Great start, Cara. Keep going. You can't possibly embarrass yourself worse than you already have. "I'm not quite comfortable just sitting around."

It surprises her, it seems. Enough for her to stop writing the missive she was working on and look at me. Her beautifully groomed eyebrows go up, like I'd just asked her when I could start mopping the floors. I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to that either. 

"Were you not nobility where you come from? Forgive me, my lady, but I did not wish to presume you would want to labor any further once we settled in." 

I blink back at her. Did other people assume that, or just her? Maybe it was the fact that my body was definitely pampered and well-fed, but that's likely just a product of my society as a whole rather than an indicator of my status in it. Right?

I certainly didn't grow up with any sort of wealth. Can't imagine it changed _that_ much, if my gut feeling about the economic state of Earth had any truth.

"I assure you, Lady Josephine, I'm no more noble than Sera or Varric. I just wish to earn my keep; surely my training won't last all day, so I'd like to make use of my time." 

"Unfortunately, with the arrival of many new workers, most jobs would require a trade, and taking an apprenticeship at your age seems out of the question. My work here, well, you'd have to know a little bit of the Game, as the Orlesians call it. I'm afraid you're simply much too new to this world." I get the feeling she doesn't actually feel bad for my loss. Whatever this Game is, she thinks I'm better off out of it.

But this still doesn't solve my problem.

"Oh. Well, that's fine." I try to feign disappointment, I’m sure she sees right through it. "Anything else will do." 

I manage to catch the exact moment her mind starts to work; I see the shift in her eyes, and I feel a newfound admiration slot into place. There's likely a reason she's the softest out of all the advisors. The only one who hasn't threatened to outright kill me.

That might be her entire point, I think. Someone has _got_ to balance out all the bloodlust around here. And powerful people are harder to control than to kill.

"I suppose you could become a runner," she muses, shuffling around some papers, "One of the Commander's personal runners was gravely injured during the escape from Haven, and he has one right now instead of the usual two. That poor Jim lad does seem a bit overworked."

The prospect of working for the Commander makes every coherent thought in my head dissipate into smoke. The gravel in his voice from yesterday comes back to me then, and it goes straight to my gut. I still don't know exactly where I stand with him, or exactly where he stands with _me_. For all this talk of processing and rationalizing, I’ve done an excellent job of ignoring whatever it is that’s bothering me.

But I'm not about to tell Josephine that the man makes my stomach flutter. Now would objectively be the worst possible time to say anything to anyone about that.

"Runner? Like… a messenger? I pass stuff along and all that?"

"Yes, exactly." Josephine smiles at me. Sweet and buttery, like a pastry, and it leaves a warm feeling in my stomach. No wonder all the nobles are putty under her hands. "Many of the scouts report to him, of course, but a personal runner would be assigned to him exclusively. You are quite intelligent in your own right, from my understanding, and the Commander has mentioned that you were literate. Here."

Josephine hands me a thin plank of wood and a… pencil. It's a rather crude pencil, by my standards, but it's good enough to write with. I should ask someone around here about getting me a dagger.

Then Josephine's eyebrows knit together, and she asks, delicately, "Your memory won't be a problem, will it?"

Right. Either I'm a monstrosity-in-the-making that's hiding devious secrets under the guise of amnesia, or I'm an emotionally fragile woman with the mental fortitude of a child. Hopefully this'll give me a chance to prove I'm neither.

"The problem seems to be exclusive to memories of my past, Ambassador," I explain, "It's been functioning perfectly well otherwise."

"Well, good." She looks relieved, and then a small smirk graces her lips. "Consider this your first assignment. Go tell Cullen you're to be his new runner, and then come back to me. I'd love for you to describe the face he makes when you say it."

I can't help the laugh. Unfortunately for Josephine, it'll probably be beyond words.

*

At the very least, Cullen is easy to find. I didn't get the chance to take stock of the room as a whole before. It was one of the first towers deemed suitable for use, though there's still quite a bit of rubble sitting in the corners and what looks like… a massive hole in the ceiling. And a tree poking right through. I _definitely_ didn't notice that yesterday. 

Maybe if he had a way to keep the goddamn draft out, he wouldn't be collapsing, but then again, he needs _something_ to justify that furry monstrosity. It certainly looks warm, if nothing else.

There's still not much aside from his desk and chair, still covered by a metric fuckton of reports and an assortment of other things he deals with on a daily basis. From the looks of it, most of it is _new_. I certainly can't begrudge his work ethic; the man gets through it all faster than should be possible. 

I wonder idly if he's eaten.

Either way, I’d better get used to this. _Ignore all the lingering confusing emotions from your drunken stupor and hungover ponderings, Cara._ From now on, it'll be me standing directly in front of him while he works, taking note of what he says, and parroting his words back to others. A decent enough job, if such a thing exists for me in this world. At least I know he won't be needlessly cruel.

Just reasonably cautious, or like, whatever it is they do to neutralize mages here, if I do hurt anyone by accident with my bottled up magic. Maybe he'll smite me like they do in the stories. Gotta remember that I'm still a bomb and I have no idea what'll set me off. Maybe this way at least the rest of the Inquisition can sleep easy knowing a Templar is watching me.

So, despite my reservations, I tell him. The delightful way his jaw drops almost makes it all worth it.

It takes him a few seconds to carefully measure out a reply. I get the feeling that he's a man who does his best to think his whole sentence through before he starts speaking, which bodes well for me. Makes my job easier. 

"Surely there are better things for you to do than to carry messages around?"

Well, it was either that or scrubbing pots and doing the soldiers' laundry, but I don't want to tell _him_ that. Insubordination is a word I remember. The crease in his brow seems more confused or frustrated than angry. Why, I’m not yet sure. Is it just me in general? Maybe something to do with the possibility I’ll steal Inquisition secrets?

That's not even taking into account the fact that our last conversation involved me practically peeling him off the ground. And before that we’d had an argument. I strongarmed him into taking a goddamn nap. 

Two moments of weakness. Things he wouldn't want any of his soldiers to see. Is that a point in my favor, or against it? I can't tell.

God, I don't look forward to sending my first message to Leliana.

"I'd rather do that than sit on my ass all day." My voice only wavers only a little bit. Damned nerves. It's the truth either way. Hopefully this military man doesn't think swearing is unprofessional. "Besides, I need the exercise."

Cullen sighs, and I watch the fight drain out of him. He must _really_ need someone to take this job, and must've been stretched too thin to see to it until this very moment. 

Looks like I'm technically saving his ass. Or rather Josephine is. 

The last dregs of afternoon sun stream through the windows, turning his eyes into honey, though they’re dulled from exhaustion. A few days of stubble lines his cheeks, giving him a slightly unkempt look, like he just hasn't had the time.

Fuck me. Even when he looks like shit and my mixed feelings are downright chaotic, he's still _gorgeous_. It isn't fair. 

"There’s no arguing with you, is there?" He asks then, but it doesn't sound like he’s complaining. More like a comment on my personality, if anything. This is a terrible time for me to remember that there's nothing I find sexier than a man who knows when to give up and just tell me I'm right, though I'd imagine this is a rare occurrence with him.

"Nope." 

A chuckle rumbles in his throat, barely loud enough for me to hear, and I just _know_ I'm going to hate the next thing he tells me.

"Fine then." Cullen looks me right in the eye, like he's testing me. Daring me. "I will only allow it if Leliana approves herself. Go inform her that you are vying to be my morning runner, and return to me once she's given it the clear." 

Fucking… _Cullen_. He must know how terrified I am of that woman. I knew it wouldn't be this easy.

"Just the morning?" I raise an eyebrow.

"I am sure you've better things to do in the afternoons."

A job is supposed to be the whole day, that much I remember. I jut out my bottom lip, and try to object. "But—"

"Your magic training, for one." 

I clamp my mouth shut. He's right. Solas would've chided me for slacking by now. I'd be surprised if he didn't show up in my dreams tonight and chewed my ass out for looking for a job that wasn't exclusively about getting my magic under control. At least my dreams haven't been host to _too_ many demons while he's away. Nothing I haven't been able to handle, in any case.

"And I heard the library here is nearly finished. If you are interested, of course."

Despite my best efforts, this man sees right through me. Every new reason out of his mouth chips away at my resolve. Dorian was right; I'm as transparent as water. Based on his crooked little smile, Cullen knows it too. Ass.

"Thank you, Commander." I stand up straight, gripping my little medieval clipboard. Do I salute or something? Will he care if I don't? I hope he does a better job of briefing me later. Or does it _at all,_ Jesus christ. Guess I'll hit the ground running tomorrow. "Will that be all?"

He nods. "As you were."

That's military talk for 'dismissed,' I think. 

When I walk out, I realize how strategic the placement of his office is. Three doors, accessible from anywhere in the battlements, easy for patrolling soldiers to report to. A quick path to the War Room. It's disgustingly pragmatic. 

Everything I learn about him is infuriating; puzzle piece after puzzle piece sliding into place and telling me he's nothing but a decent, slightly paranoid man trying to do the best he can for a cause he believes in, most likely killing himself in the process. He has Leliana's resilience, Cassandra's faith, and even Fione's desire for martyrdom. That can't be all there is. I see glimpses of it in his Templar past, in his view of mages. In the way he apologized to me last night. Pain and guilt and regret. Before the Inquisition stabilized the region, the mage-templar war ravaged Ferelden. I imagine it's the same everywhere else. Did he play a part in that? 

It's none of my goddamn business, but I can't help the gnawing curiosity. The guilt shows through in everything he does. But what is he guilty _of_?

I take a sharp turn into the staircase leading up to the library, and the smell of musty books and ravens fills my nose. I'd only passed through here once, but I know I’m headed the right way. Leliana’s there, and she's about to finally have her way with me.

_Deep breaths, Cara. You can do this._

I emerge from the stone staircase and take the plunge.

*

Leliana doesn't even laugh in my face when I explain what I'm there for. Just regards me for a long time, eyes boring straight into my soul, and then smiles kindly at me in a way that still sends chills all the way down to my toes.

She stands, and tilts her head towards the curve of stairs leading down.

"Follow me."

It's not a request. So I do as she says.

Leliana is surefooted as she navigates Skyhold, taking us past the library and past Vivienne's loft. She ducks underneath the scaffolding blocking the door to the other side, and I nearly trip over the wooden beams scrambling after her.

The hallway is familiar; I helped clean some of the rooms in this building, but they're far from the squalor I'd last seen them in. Pleasant conversation and birdsong flutter up from the garden below as Leliana disappears into one of the rooms near the end. 

The second I step inside, she bolts the door behind me, and the room is enveloped in darkness. Her hand finds my wrist and drags me towards the center of the room. The back of my knees hit a chair and I drop down.

Only then does she light a nearby lamp. What a drama queen. Of all the ways this woman terrifies me, _this_ is how she tries to scare me?

Leliana doesn't speak just yet. I stare back at her, watching the way the shadows dance across her face, determined not to let my expression give away the erratic thud of my heartbeat.

Finally, she asks, every word carefully measured, "Do you know what my spies have found about you?"

Every moment that passes chips away at my patience. Here I was, hoping she was just going to let me go with a stern warning. Silly me, for daring to feel optimistic. Have I not proven myself by now? Would they call me their goddamn _Oracle_ if they didn't trust me and what I say? This is ridiculous.

"Why ask the question if you already know the answer?"

Leliana narrows her eyes.

"They've found nothing. Every lead a dead end. Every possibility shot down. Our every connection, whether noble or underground, knows nothing of you." She walks around me, and I resist the urge to whip my head around to watch her. "Do you know what that means?"

"I already told you what that means." I hold my chin up high. "I'm not from this world."

Leliana huffs out a short laugh.

"You are a ghost."

That'd be a cruel twist of irony. I'd watched enough bad movies in my childhood to know the cliches: car crash, long comas, grisly murders that leave me hanging onto life by a thread. Not sure why my dying subconscious would give me _this_ world as a dream, but I wasn't about to question my reality.

I know this is real. I'm no ghost.

All the rumors that surrounded Solas spring to mind. His origins are just as mysterious as mine, and _he_ doesn't have the visions to back it up. What exactly does _she_ know about _him_? My gut tells me next to nothing. Why do _I_ get all the scrutiny, the prodding, the mistrust? Is it because I'm more helpless than he is?

What was he said? Usefulness. 

The more vulnerable I am, the less I'm worth. I feel my temper rising a second too late; the words are already out of my mouth.

"Oh, I'm _sorry_ ," I snap, red hot anger burning in my throat, "would you have preferred for me to be someone else's spy? I can go look for a master to serve, if you'd like."

My insolence doesn't even phase her. Apparently our lovely spymaster is immune to childish jabs, which I should've expected. I won't be able to best her with sarcasm, but at least being glib makes me feel better about my crappy situation. 

"No need to panic, Lady Cara." Leliana smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You are far from my top priority at the moment."

"Is that why you have at least three people tailing me? Tell that one elf with the red hair she's not very good at being discreet."

 _There!_ The corner of her lip twitched, but she managed to keep her sweet smile plastered on. I hope she doesn't punish that spy or anything.

"I apologize." Leliana sounds genuine for once; I can see it in her eyes too. "I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Yeah, well." I huff, crossing my arms and leaning back into the chair. "Too late."

She does another rotation, tapping her chin with a perfectly manicured finger as she circles me. Do they have manicures here? They must. It has to be an Orlesian thing. Maybe when she's not interrogating me like we're in a bad cop movie I can ask her.

"That leaves you in a precarious position, you understand."

I cock an eyebrow. "Does it now?"

"You may begin working as the Commander's runner. I see no reason to deny you that considering you've shown nothing but eagerness to prove your worth to the Inquisition."

"Just like that? No truth serums, no magical lie detectors, no waterboarding or anything?" 

I tilt my head at her. That seems almost too easy. All I've done in this conversation is act like a child and lash out. Is that supposed to be a testament to my character? A sign of honesty? Proof that I am completely incapable of lying outright even if my life depended on it?

Leliana leans against the wall, arms over her chest. When she sighs, she sounds about a thousand years old.

"Oftentimes the truth lies in the simplest answer." 

Hard to suss out the truth when your head's about as secure as a slice of swiss cheese. I may be a stubborn hardass, but even I know I should question the things I'm absolutely certain of. 

Maybe I'm being too hard on everyone. I can't blame them for doubting me when I can't even tell if I'm lying to myself.

I look up at Leliana. "And what would that be, in this case?"

"That you are who you say you are, loathe I am to admit it." 

"Disappointed?" I can't help the smile.

And Leliana returns it, and for the first time I notice just how delicate her features are. Despite her hardened eyes and even harder heart, her lips are a pretty pink, shiny in the light, and the smile makes the apples of her cheeks look round and full of life. 

It reminds me something, deep into the crevices of my mind, but I can't quite place it. 

"I admit, you are far less exciting than I had hoped," Leliana says, all casual. 

"I like being boring. It's easier." Working around Skyhold in relative peace as a nobody definitely beats the stares that followed me when we were still lost in the Frostbacks. 

"For some." Leliana shrugs, looking off the side, eyes glazed with some memory. "For others, obscurity is a fate worse than death."

"Keep at it." I chew on the inside of my cheek. "Eventually you'll believe that."

We both go silent. Something odd hangs in the air—and the lost memory keeps nagging at me, begging to be found, but I _know_ attempting would just give me a headache, and I don't need that right now.

Leliana opens the door, and I flinch at the sudden burst of sunlight.

"Go back to the Commander and tell him the good news," Leliana says, her voice on the edge of playful, "I'm sure he'll be delighted to know I haven't sent you running for the hills just yet."

Ugh. Something about the way she speaks always implies she knows more than she lets on, and I doubt I'll ever know her well enough to be able to figure it out. 

"Yet." I stand and dust myself off. "Thank you, Sister Leliana."

Leliana lingers in the doorway for a moment, before turning her head just enough to say over her shoulder, "The pleasure is mine, Lady Oracle."

With that, she disappears, footsteps utterly silent against the stone floor, trusting me well enough to find my way back to the Commander's office by myself. 

The woman still doesn't completely trust me, and it's something more than just my lack of known origins. Maybe she sees me as a little easier to finesse than Solas, which, in all fairness, is true. I'd be scared of him too; I've given her no reason to fear me, outside of the whole demon possession thing.

It's also likely she knows full well that becoming Cullen's runner will make me privy to secrets of the Inquisition. I'm no snitch. I've got no one to tell, anyways. Maybe she'll use her own spies to get her messages to him. Maybe she'll tell Josephine off for deciding my role without consulting them. Maybe she's poisoning my dinner right now. Either way, it's out of my control.

What I _can_ do is try to earn her trust, but I haven't the slightest clue how to do that outside of being good at my job. So I guess that's the plan for now.

It's as good a goal as any.

*

Working for Cullen is… interesting, to say the least.

He calls on me just as the dinner bell rings, and we sit in his office as he briefs me on what my duties are. We do it over some bread and stew, at my behest. Apparently if you go behind his back and have food delivered to him, he's much too polite to reject it. It’s those Chantry manners biting him in the ass, but it's serving me well.

Work certainly won't be easier if my boss is starving, dehydrated, and fatigued. I'm not about to be on the receiving end of a short temper and a fried short term memory, so it's in my best interests to keep him healthy. And Fione's, really, if I think about it hard enough. 

Apparently there's a difference between scouts and privates — who have field duties, on top of delivering reports and messages — and personal runners. As I'm assigned to Cullen, I'm to carry messages and documents from only him, and any necessary replies. Eventually, once I'm better known throughout the system, people and other runners will start knowing to come to me to deliver things to Cullen.

Not that it's easier to find me than him, considering I blend right into the crowd and he sticks out like a golden, fluffy, sore thumb.

The afternoon runner seems nice enough, if a little quiet and wide-eyed. His name is Jim. Scout Jim. And he's dutiful and every bit a soldier, just as the Commander would prefer, though he gets a bit gawky at times. He's probably much better suited for this than I am, but at least I've helped free up his mornings for more regular scout work. Though I'm certain that’s just more paperwork.

Maya has some uniforms delivered to my room in the morning. A forest green tunic, with softer, more pastel green breeches and leather gloves. The hood is a bit much, but it keeps the cold away from my face when I'm walking all over the place. Skyhold is somehow _colder_ than it was when we first arrived.

When I tie my hair up in a bun and hide it underneath the hood, I look identical to all the other scouts running around. Maybe a little shorter for a human, sure, but no one's gonna notice that from a distance. Practically invisible.

I learn quickly that Cullen is a creature of habit. Not all of them good, of course, but they’re habits all the same.

In the mornings, he oversees training of the troops, and pays special attention to new arrivals. We travel to the temporary military camps set up inside Skyhold's walls; Cullen thinks aloud, saying they'll have to start rebuilding the surrounding villages once the keep itself is at capacity. People come to Skyhold from all over looking to fight for the Inquisition, but a lot of them are painfully green. Eager and dangerously untrained. I get the sense that Cullen doesn't even want any of them holding weapons yet, but there's no time to spare. Some probably don't even know which end of the sword to grip. His words. 

So he supervises them himself, and I spend an hour or two running through recruits swinging blunted swords, and I only get hit _once_. It wasn’t that hard. Probably won't even bruise.

He's different here, in the open light of the training grounds. All his sharp edges glint in the sun and his voice is rough and loud and _well_ , commanding. Every now and then he'll taunt a recruit— reminding him he has a shield, and he’s supposed to be using it—but there's a gentleness underneath his fierce demeanor. A message of hope any teacher would want to impart on their students. I hear it in his tone and see it in the copper flecks in his eyes.

 _Do not die on me,_ he tells them without words. _That is an order._

After an hour of watching him, I get a good sense of his teaching style. He finds out whether a particular recruit is motivated better when met with praise or with a challenge, and adjusts what he calls out to them accordingly. 

Somehow he knows every person's name by heart without playing favorites. He moves through the pandemonium with ease, adjusting elbows and shield arms and stances without so much as a backward glance to the previous recruit. 

Cullen makes an offhand comment about how the more seasoned soldiers spar with the mages in the afternoons, and I make a note to come out and observe _that_ later.

The few hours he supervises is when I'm needed the most, he claims, because much of the work from the day before gets carried over and he's not at his desk for it. If he has other commitments he will send for me ahead of time to inform me. I don't comment on the fact that he'll need a runner to fetch his runner. Is there an endless supply around here? Does it loop back around?

I miss cellphones, I think. Texting was easier than all this convoluted bullshit, but at least I have a job.

When he says something about how I'll soon have to learn to dodge real blades to reach him, it takes me a full minute to realize he's joking. He finds the way my face goes pale funnier than the joke itself.

On the bright side, all this information is keeping me from thinking about Fione and how far away she is. Even just a few days of not being able to sense her magic feels like a lifetime, like there's a hole in my chest where she used to be, and it gnaws at me every moment I'm awake. Now that I have some memories back, the possibility that I've known the feel of her magic long before I arrived in Thedas lingers in the back of my mind. A gut feeling. But I push it away. No use dwelling on it when I won't get answers for a while.

The first few days with Cullen go smoothly enough. 

Training in the courtyard in the early morning, for two hours, before it's handed over to Captain Rylen. Then he oversees the continued reconstruction of Skyhold. Right now most of the work has been delegated appropriately, but Cullen likes to double check. 

Rylen is a good man who seems kind down to his core, and his accent is darling. 

First we stop at the building that's meant to become the infirmary, which is next to the quartermaster. It was little more than rubble when we arrived, but it’s coming along nicely. The armory, and then the north tower. A brief look at the Herald's Rest, which is already up and running well enough as far as taverns go, and then to the barracks. He tells me to stick with him for the first two days, throwing notes at me to take down as he inspects progress. 

None of it would be particularly interesting to outsiders. What kind of wood finishing will keep the chill out of this building, what shape to cut the stones for this path, what foundations still need to be relaid. I'm not sure if it's intentional, but I get the feeling I'll be kept from handling any sensitive information for a while.

Whether that's Cullen's decision or Leliana's, I'll probably never find out.

I quickly memorize his routine, including the paths he takes; it never changes. By the time he sends me out to, well, be an actual runner, I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out where exactly he'll be depending on how much time has passed.

The Inquisition will be a well-oiled machine by the week's end. And I’m a little in awe of how much of it is thanks to the Commander.

Eventually I become acquainted with anyone who's anyone in the Inquisition, considering how often Cullen needs messages sent. After a while, even Leliana's eyes stop hardening whenever I approach her. I'd consider that a win, but I wouldn't want to get complacent. God forbid I let my guard down right before she decides I'm better off dead.

At midday he dismisses me in as stern a tone, but I always catch a small smile on his lips. I try not to think about it.

Most of his work in the afternoon consists of paperwork and touching base with his many higher ranking officers, hearing reports, and discussing troop movement throughout the regions. I hear he also handles inter-unit training with the mages personally, which is interesting, but that's Jim's job, not mine.

Working by his side certainly does wonders for my ambivalence towards him. I could see myself truly warming up to him, in time. It'd be miserable if I spent every second of every morning worried about how confused he left me, so I nip it at the bud.

He doesn't seem to want me dead. He'd said as much, in plain words, and now I know he's not one to lie. I'll believe him. 

Doubting everyone's words and intentions makes me just like the people I've been trying to fault. And I try to avoid being a hypocrite as much as I can.

In the afternoons, I tear through the stack of books Cullen lent me, and some others from Dorian. A few tomes are about recent history—like the Fifth Blight, which is so recent I could probably just ask the Fereldans themselves about it instead of reading—but I devour it all easily either way. The story of the Hero of Ferelden tugs at my heartstrings. For some reason, the concept of a man who had lost everything, clawing his way back up to save a country that had betrayed him resonates with me. Still, it's almost too sensational to be real. Like the story's been wrapped up with a tight bow.

Apparently Varric had dabbled in a bit of non-fiction as well, and I take pleasure in reading a few chapters of the Tale of the Champion after lunch. Hawke isn't as grand a story, but the way Varric describes her warms my soul. Like I'm reading about an old friend.

The garden is one of the best places to read. And so far, no one's bothered me.

Sometimes when I'm sitting in my quarters, I try to practice my barriers, but it makes me feel a bit pathetic. I have no way of knowing if I'm doing anything correctly, so I decide to stick to the books for now.

At night I spend time at the Herald's Rest. Not by choice, at first. A few days after the repairs are handed over to the trained workers, Krem sees me walking to my room alone in the evening and practically drags me there and glues my ass to a seat. That first night with him was grand, I have to admit, so he succeeds in making me promise to come regularly. And fine, yeah, I do it for him. After the day he caught me on the battlements, I owe him that much.

Krem quickly becomes a steadfast and true friend. The Chargers take great pleasure in introducing me to all the different permutations of alcohol Thedas has to offer. They ranged from ales to meads to rums to more fruity concoctions. Brews from all over Feredelen and Orlais and the Marches. And some of them are so atrocious that I can't even smell them without getting sick.

I squirm whenever I'm surrounded by too many people—a product of my upbringing, I'm sure now—but the drinking helps. It keeps me from running.

After the third night they start to take bets on how I'll take it, considering I apparently have a weak ass tolerance. On whether this drink will make me drop or not, make me cry, or make me blow up. Stitches and Rocky always bet in my favor, while Dalish and Skinner love betting against me.

Apparently I love to argue when I'm drunk. I'll pick a fight with anyone or anything, for the most shallow of reasons. When the right time to eat is, whether yellow is a better color than blue, the merits of warm weather versus cold weather.

Varric says my entire face goes completely red when I start to raise my voice. So, there's that. The teasing isn't so bad, after a while.

I get the feeling I didn't drink _this_ much back home. Maybe. I don't mind it here, and the hangovers aren't too bad when I can walk them off in the morning while working.

Varric teaches me how to play Wicked Grace, and I can tell he lets me win. I don't call him out on it. We never play for money anyway. Blackwall joins us eventually, and then Sera. Bull sits at our table sometimes, for cards or drinks or stories. The more I see him, the less terrified I am. Sometimes I even forget he's threatened to kill me.

Overall, it's… actually kinda nice. 

I get the feeling that I've been alone for a long time. 

*

My education plateaus. Not in a bad way, just out of necessity. By choice, too, but it leaves me frustrated all the same.

Once I have the fundamentals of society down and start getting into the nitty gritty and the nuance of everyone's different countries, cultures, and races, I force myself to take my time. There's no point in rushing through all of this if it'll end up dribbling out the second I learn something new. The rush of learning as a means of survival has worn off, now that I'm certain I know enough to get by. Proper study, Solas says, will take time. Considering he's been alone his entire life, I concede to his point.

Besides, I get my fair share of random information now that I'm an assistant for what may be the most overworked military officer on this continent. I've learned more about how the Inquisition functions in these past weeks than I ever would have as a civilian mage just hanging around the keep, and that's in no small part due to Cullen's patience.

I learn quickly that I have some sort of complex about asking for help. The first time I came across something that I should've known but _didn't_ , a huge lump formed in my throat and I had to force the question out. Cullen didn't seem to notice, and answered without a hint of mockery, but _I_ did. Swallowing my pride, over and over again, was as exhausting as it was necessary. 

Compared to how Solas treated me those first few days, this man might as well be a saint. The Second Coming of Andraste or some shit. 

Maybe it's because I'm more strategic and less bratty when I speak to him. He _is_ my boss, after all, and the less work he manages to do the worse it is for me. So I try to only bother him when I feel like he's about to burst at the seams. 

That man is a goddamn workaholic, and I get the feeling nothing short of divine intervention could get him to change his ways. Stubborn as a mule. Takes one to know one, I guess.

If one of my questions is the only thing that pauses the endless stream of worry that runs through his brain, then I'm doing him a favor. 

Besides, I'm only here because he asked for my assistance with something, chasing me down once my "training" in the library had finished for the day. I didn't even bother to leave his office once we'd finished. There's a couch with a thick cloth draped over it in the corner, so I plant myself there.

Maybe I should start taking my own advice, before he turns me into a workaholic too. One of us is enough. 

Right now, if I squint, I can see the vein on his left temple throb from how hard he's pushing himself. Dinner can't be long now, and I definitely won't let him miss it. Now's as good a time as any. I haven't gotten him to blow up _yet_. So far, so good. 

He doesn't even notice me walking up to him. He's that far gone.

"Where's Skyhold on this map?" I ask, and Cullen practically jumps out of his thoughts. I almost feel bad, but then he looks up at me and all the tension falls from his face and shoulders. Man, this guy deserves a two week long nap.

I put the atlas down in front of him, careful not to jostle any of the other documents on his desk.

"Is that yours?" He reaches over and pulls it towards himself, running a finger over the illustration of the Frostback Mountains. It's detailed enough, with Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes properly labeled in a neat script.

"My copy? Yeah, Dorian bought me one. Nice of him, honestly. It's pretty recent too." I lean over, craning my neck. "Where's Skyhold?"

Cullen's eyes flit back to me, and then zero in on the quill and scrap of paper in my hand.

"Is that _red_ ink?"

I roll my eyes, mostly for dramatic effect. "Just tell me, Commander. Pretty _please_."

Manners. They always get to him. He studies the map for a minute, and then traces a route from Haven to a spot high in the mountains.

"Here." I reach over and mark it with a red x, while he drags his finger more precisely down the mountain. "Inquisition forces secured the route shortly after we arrived. We are about a two days' ride from Haven."

"On foot?" 

"Little over three days."

I make note of it on my piece of paper, my tongue sticking out of the corner of my lips as I draw arrows to and from places. 

"Thank you." I flip the page—after making sure my ink has dried—to a map of Ferelden that's more zoomed out. "Hm… the Hinterlands. That's Redcliffe, right? The supply lines there are stronger than ever, especially since the Inquisitor had secured the Crossroads and the village before I'd even arrived. How long to get there? From Skyhold?"

Cullen straightens up, like I'd just caught his attention. He traces a road that goes from Haven to Lake Calenhad. "A week on horseback. Two weeks on foot, though there is little need for that now."

I can feel his eyes on me as I note it all down. I'd be more self conscious if I wasn't already working for him; he knows my penmanship is trash. I wonder if that's something I should be working on as well.

"What is all this for?" He asks once I've finished.

"Committing it to memory, of course. I'll be no use to you if I can't keep basic geography straight," I answer plainly, turning back to the map. "Would you be able to trace the supply line here?"

He looks at the quill in his hand, and then shakes his head. "I may ruin your perfectly good map."

"Fine then, you snob." I can't help the snort as I snatch back my atlas, because it feels a little ridiculous having to bend over that far. Why is his desk so massive? "Get me a map I can write on, then I'll think about doing my job better."

"Your job is to be a runner, you know, not process all my documents yourself. Rylen's my second; that's what he's here for. And I have other officers."

There's no genuine criticism in his tone; it's soft, like he thinks I've actually forgotten what my job is or he's concerned I'm overextending myself on his behalf. Ass. Like he doesn't bite off more than he can chew every morning in lieu of an actual balanced breakfast.

"I know. I'm not trying to usurp either of you, don't you worry about that," I reassure him, "I'd just… It'd be better if I knew, wouldn't it?"

That could be said about a lot of things, but I don't say any more. If only I didn't arrive here empty, if only I'd be satisfied spending my day learning instead of working, if only I could download the information like a computer. If only, if only.

Maybe then I'd have to ask Cullen less. It's only by the blessing of the fucking Maker that he's never condescending, especially since I know he's fully capable of it. I watch him train new recruits—the way he weaponizes his taunts to whip them into shape is eerily effective—but that voice is never directed at me. Not even when he's giving me orders.

Why can't he just be an actual ass? This would be so much easier.

"Of course," Cullen says then, pulling me out of my thoughts. He quickly adds, "Val Royeaux is a week by horse as well. Our troops have so far successfully kept the route safe. We'll have no problems there."

"Copy that, Commander."

I smile to myself as I write that down. Without another word, he goes back to his own stack of reports, and I go back to my seat by the door. The dinner bell is due any second, so I try to go through my maps one more time, but my mind is elsewhere.

When I invite him to eat with me, he doesn't bother to object.

*

Solas doesn't visit me in the Fade until the following week. I underestimated his self restraint, though I wasn't wrong about the fact that he was planning to chew me out. The more familiar I become with my magic, the easier it is to forget I'm a disaster waiting to happen. Fortunately—or unfortunately—Solas is quick to remind me. Back home he'd have called me a ticking time bomb.

At least I always know he’s not a demon. I'm not sure what kind of demon would be stupid enough to try and tempt me into possession by insulting my magical abilities. Or lack thereof.

I make Dorian take over my practical lessons the next day, and we train together in the courtyard for an hour or two in the afternoon. Casting doesn't always work out, so sometimes we settle for regular battle tactics. Movement, dodging, keeping hold of a staff in the heat of battle, when to heal, and finding out an opponent's weaknesses. All those things I hopefully won't need, but should be prepared for anyways.

The poor man whines every minute of it, like he doesn't have a choice, but I know for a fact that he enjoys it. Absolutely loves it when he gets to throw a small block of ice at me to dodge.

My barriers get better and better, slowly, and more complex. Eventually I can manage to shield myself from a pretty hefty fireball.

I don't pretend to ignore the fact that Cullen sometimes watches. If I'm transparent, then he's basically polished glass. Now that we've smoothed out the awkward kinks of our… relationship by turning it into some sort of professional arrangement, I'm less confused around him. I just hope that means the flipside is the same.

I wave at him whenever I see him, and he always rushes back into his office after he waves back. Like I've burned him from all the way down here.

He never orders a Templar watch guard, not like he did at camp. It makes me wonder.

The third time it happens, Dorian decides to comment. And of course he has to do it right after throwing an icicle at me, probably in hopes of distracting me. "You have quite the attractive shadow, my dear." 

The icicle shatters as I erect a small barrier right where it would've slammed into my arm.

"I don't know what he expects to get out of doing that." I try to conjure up a spark of electricity, but I literally feel my magic build up and then sputter pathetically out of my staff. So much for that. 

I'd rather be frustrated over my ineptitude in magic than at the fact that I find a man attractive, especially since I have no business even looking at him that way. It's easier to understand, even with the tangle of theoretical bullshit me and Solas discussed.

"You're thinking much too hard about this, aren't you?" Dorian muses, placing an ice mine by my feet. I sidestep it. "Men are always much simpler than you think they are."

I'm panting by now. He's pushing much harder than he was before he started the conversation. Ass. 

"You including yourself in that statement?"

"Why, I'm the simplest man of them all." Dorian grins as I see the beginnings of a Winter's Grasp on his fingers. "If you can find me a man who can handle that, I'll buy you an entire cellar of the finest Orlesian vintage."

I brace myself for impact, and manage to put a barrier inches from his face right before the spell erupts. His forehead bumps against it and he hisses a string of Tevene curse words. Pure instinct. Solas would be proud. Ice seems to shatter around him as the spell is interrupted. 

"You know I never back down from a challenge, Dory."

His face twists in disgust; it's hilarious to watch how his mustache moves. "Eugh, I do hope you find something else to call me. That's rather uncouth."

I try to actually attack him this time, with some ice maybe, but come up short once again. I feel my fingers grow a _tiny_ bit colder before they warm up to body temperature again. Ugh, why am I like this? I sidestep another piece of ice flying my way.

"I only do it 'cause it annoys you so."

Dorian flourishes his staff again, giving it a twirl — he's a much more ostentatious caster than Solas is, that's for sure — and tries to singe my hair. Rude. 

"Can't imagine why the Commander finds you so charming," Dorian says, an infuriating smile on his lips, "You're about as alluring as a damp nug."

"You love me." I deadpan, pointedly ignoring his outrageous claim. I collapse onto the ground, panting and drenched in sweat. It must look attractive, I'm sure. "Can we take a break?"

For a moment it looks like he's gonna force me to keep sparring. It's juvenile as hell, but I pout up at him. The most pathetic pout I can muster. If he refused, I would've punched him in the face just to prove a point, but thankfully he takes mercy on me. Or pity. I'll take either; whichever gets me into a change of clothes faster.

"Oh, I could never resist that face." He pulls me up from the ground, and then nudges me towards the direction of our rooms. "Clean yourself up and come find me. I hear they've opened up the library for use."

Maya hands me a missive from the Fione later that day. News from the Fallow Mire. I wait until I get to my room to read it.

*

_Cara,_

_I hope you're well. We've spent a few days in the Fallow Mire, and your vision was right. It's absolutely dreadful here, and I wish I never had to come. Unfortunately we've located the missing soldiers, and some Avvar group seems to have grown quite fond of me. And by fond, I mean fanatically obsessed. Lucky me._

_Though, based on Scout Harding's reports, the fact that I miraculously survived seems to have lifted people's spirits all over Ferelden and convinced them more that I'm sent by Andraste._

_We're doing good work out there. I hope you can come out to see it one day, when you've trained a bit more of course. Solas tells me he spoke with you_ — _listen to him. I defer to his judgement on magic for a reason._

_Please take care, friend. I expect you to be able to spar with me by the time I get back._

_Yours,_ _  
_ _Fione_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAND that's the next chapter!!! cara's got something _interesting_ to do for the foreseeable future (¬‿¬ ) 
> 
> next chapters coming next week, though i might take another week break after that. this is turning into a bigger beast than i anticipated and i've gotten busy the last few weeks. BUT i've still got a Lot to post so dont worry about that.
> 
> as always thank u to mj for being a wonderful friend and beta who isnt afraid to tear me apart. u an icon
> 
> thank u all for reading!!! comments are always appreciated <3


	10. Temptations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara is forced to admit that she wants more than she realizes.

_**FIELD REPORT:** _

_LOCATION: Fallow Mire  
_ _DISPATCHED: Inquisitor Lavellan, Seeker Pentaghast, First Enchanter Vivienne, Solas_  
MISSION: Scout the region and investigate the missing Inquisition soldiers

_SUMMARY: Recent plague led to many abandoned dead bodies. Open rifts allow for many Undead in the water. Soldiers were taken by offshoot of an Avvar holding who desired to fight the Inquisitor. Hostile Avvar were neutralized. All in line with Oracle's vision._

_All twelve (12) missing soldiers alive and accounted for. Minor injuries with starvation/dehydration. Treated by field medics and healing magic. Currently en route to Skyhold alongside the Inquisitor's party._

_RIFTS: First (1st) closed with ease. Second (2nd) more challenging. Soldiers instructed to avoid area for the meantime._

_STATUS OF MISSION: SUCCESSFUL_

_NOTE: Agent acquired. The Inquisitor recruited Avvar Sky Watcher Amund when he offered his services. Separate briefing attached._

**_Prepared by Seeker Pentaghast._ **

**_*_ **

My mood fluctuates faster than I can keep track of, which only serves to make me more miserable. Not really a fan. It wasn't so bad when Skyhold was this new and fascinating thing, when the people were near strangers and I felt pressured into making a good impression. It's like my brain was coping with all the bullshit by making it easier to smile in the presence of company. Now that I'm settling in, all that adrenaline's worn off, taking my previously reliable high spirits with it. They may have been fake, but at least they were _something._

What's left is the crushing pressure of my survival, every doubt pressing down on my back like I'm stuck underneath a pile of rubble. It's exhausting but necessary work, digging myself out day by day, report by report delivered and processed. Every second feels like that night with Dorian. Like I'm bursting at the seams.

Cullen seems happy enough with me, and Leliana is cordial, but I've been too busy with my new job to think about anyone else.

Even if it's arguably in my favor, change is still terribly irritating. I'd rather things stay consistent, especially when they’re happening inside my head. There are all too many unknown variables in my life right now, and these unexpected and uncontrollable shifts in mood aren't something I need stacked up on my already full plate. But it happens, and when it does I have to adjust my routine accordingly.

Doom and gloom is the only way I can describe it. Apparently having your entire life and existence uprooted for seemingly no reason is _traumatic_. Psh.

The Chargers are no good when I'm like this. That much is easy to deduce. Krem understands, despite my reluctance to give him a reason; he ruffles my hair and disappears into the 'Rest for the night. Logically I know mercenaries and discretion go hand in hand, but knowing for sure they won't hold this against me still unravels the knot in my gut.

I sneak a bottle of strong wine from the cellar, fully intending on drinking it by myself in the darkness of my room, but apparently the universe has other plans.

"Having a party without us?"

It's Varric. I'm just barely off the kitchen steps when he finds me. He's alone, walking in from his usual haunt in the Main Hall. There's a flickering light in the barn which tells me he's about to chill with Blackwall or Sera or someone else for the night.

"Um, maybe?" I say tentatively, gripping the bottle to my chest with both hands. I must look like a criminal caught in the act.

Varric gives me a once-over—I don't look _that_ awful, do I?—before jerking his head towards the barn. There's a tiny hint of concern in his eyes, and I hate it.

"Join us? We could always use an extra set of hands."

I'm one rejection down for the night, so I can't find it in me to say no. Varric and Blackwall are much less rowdy, besides. And they're more likely to catch onto my mood.

A quiet night of cards and drink. Sounds fine to me.

I exhale.

"Alright."

There's a couple of chairs inside the barn that weren't there before, and Blackwall arranges them so we're all seated around a crate that's just tall enough to reach our knees and just large enough to fit our cards. Varric deals — he always deals when I'm playing — and we sit in relative silence. It's the quietest game of Wicked Grace I've ever witnessed in my short life on Thedas.

We drink all the wine, passing each other the bottle rather than bothering with cups. As the night progresses it gets harder to hold both my cards and my alcohol at the same time, but the two of them are gentlemen. They pointedly pretend not to catch glimpses of my hand.

Eventually the peace is too much even for Varric.

"You got word from our Inquisitorialness?"

"How d'you say all that every time?" Blackwall huffs, his mustache blowing out with his breath. "A proper mouthful."

Varric throws down a card that makes Blackwall groan.

"You got any better ideas?"

"You could call her Birdie."

Both Blackwall and Varric turn to look at me, the former a little surprised and the latter with curiosity. Shit. That’s probably the first thing I've said all night.

"And why's that, Starshine?" Varric asks, who is quite frankly an angel sent from the Maker for pretending I'm not brooding like a little bitch.

My entire body itches under the weight of their gazes. Even fully clothed and barely visible in the flickering torchlight I feel way too exposed.

"Her vallaslin," I blurt out. Wait. They might not know the term. I hurry to explain. "Um, her tattoos? They kinda look like a bird's wings."

Varric purses his lips, mulling over it for a minute, before breaking into a wide smile.

"Now that is _inspired_. And she does have a lovely singing voice."

What? I gape at him, but he's not even looking at me anymore. He's gone back to examining his cards. As if the game still matters anymore. We all know Varric's winning.

"Fione… sings?"

"Oh, constantly." Varric takes a swig of the wine; there's only a few more drinks left. "Usually when we're out on the road and bored out of our wits."

Blackwall grunts affirmatively. "Good way to pass the time, when all we're doing is running about for hours."

Somewhere in my head I know what her singing sounds like. I must've heard it somewhere, sometime, and not noticed. Her voice is high and bright, clear as a cloudless sky, like a Disney Princess. I can imagine the way her chest swells with carefree joy as she goes through verse after verse, so clearly it's like she's really here.

It's been so long. I hate that I miss her. I barely _know_ her.

I stare down at my cards. The illustrations and symbols blur, and I blink them back into focus. I can't possibly be _that_ drunk.

Varric drops the conversation thread. Must be something in my eyes that tells him I'm in no condition to tell him anything for the next two days. Maybe.

When we finish the one bottle of wine, all that’s keeping me from going in search of another is knowing Varric and Blackwall would judge me.

When the moon is high in the sky and I take my leave, Blackwall gives me a reassuring pat on the back, while Varric settles for a kind smile. The gestures should make me feel cared for, but instead it's just irritating that they have to treat me like I'm made of glass.

I'm thankful that my head is heavy enough from the alcohol for me to fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. The last thing I need is to be tormented by something else within the confines of my head. Small mercies.

*

With each day that passes, I settle into my job better, like a pair of leather boots molding to the shape of my feet. Cullen starts to understand the little quirks of my work ethic—sometimes when my mind's going too fast I say a dozen things in a row, I'm able to mentally fill in the gaps of complicated tasks just as quickly as he can, I am absolutely worthless without food in me—and he adjusts accordingly.

I can tell it irks him that I get grumpy and inefficient when I'm hungry, because that just means I have extra motivation to get the two of us fed.

And I start to understand him, in turn. His memory is as sharp as one of Cole's blades. He knows all the scouts by name, and he can get them to understand just exactly how urgent something is with a _look_. He can give verbal instructions while writing down something completely different, and even then his handwriting is perfectly neat and even. His mind is always on a million different things at once.

Because of that there's something disarming about the way he looks at me when I've got his full attention. Like it's too heavy a thing for one person to carry.

I try not to linger on how that thought makes me feel.

That evening, I bite the bullet and ask Josephine for a journal. As usual, she greets me with a pleasant smile and bright eyes. It surprises me a little when she immediately sends for Maya, saying she's more than happy to find one for me right that minute. I wonder how well that works for the other diplomats, because it damn well makes my insides all fluffy. The way this woman wields kindness terrifies me almost as much as Leliana does, but at the very least I've never been on the receiving end of her more covert manipulations. As far as I know. Isn’t _that_ a comforting thought.

It only takes half an hour before Maya is knocking on my door and handing me a beautiful brown leather-bound notebook. I try to thank her with a few coins from the meager stipend I get as a half-day runner, but she just waves me off and disappears into the night.

I tuck Fione's letter into the pages, and start writing.

Without a desk, I end up putting a candle on my nightstand and angling the journal on my knee. My penmanship is… passable, at best. Worse when I know no one but myself will have to read it. Cullen certainly understands it well enough, which is what matters, but God forbid Dorian look at it. Or Josephine herself.

By the time I've written down everything I remember, it's surely past midnight by now. Not that I have any way to accurately tell time here.

When I lay my head down and slip slowly into the embrace of the Fade, the voice whispers in my ear. And she sounds dangerously close, like she's standing just outside of these walls. Waiting for me.

_"You were raised well."_

*

Fione returns after another week. I start to feel her magic bloom in my periphery long before she passes through the gates, but I hold back. I wait for her with everyone else, and when she dismounts she gives me the brightest smile I've ever seen on her.

Her aura is bright and white, and smells sweet as I hug her. When I close my eyes I can feel my own magic curl around her, clutching her just as tightly as my arms do. It makes a maddening twinge of panic burst in the back of my mind, but I will it away. I may never understand what or how or why, but I hold her all the same.

Unfortunately, all I get is a short hug before she's whisked away on important business. I hear something about an urgent War Room meeting, having her check on the progress of each of Skyhold's reconstruction projects, and solving some dispute with the mages.

And something else. I don't hear the exact words, though it seems to have something to do with the future of the Inquisition. Vague, but I suppose I'll find out sooner or later.

Fione takes the news that I'm Cullen's runner well enough. I even get a little laugh out of her when I explain my whole independent woman schtick. I can tell Solas is less amused, though he relents when I insist I won't slack on my magic.

The next two days consist of me trailing behind Cullen as he shows Fione around Skyhold. I realize it's kind of amazing just how much work's been done in the last few weeks. The change must be crazy for Fione, who chats brightly with Cullen and the workers they pass by as they do their inspections.

The more time I spend in her presence, the less exhausted I feel. As though just being near her makes me more energized and alive. Thank god I have a journal now, because the data's getting a little too complicated—and emotionally compromised—to stay in my head.

The voice in my head is conveniently silent on the matter.

The second I think that, Fione glances back at me from behind Cullen and gives me a wide smile. My heart twitches in the strangest way. I stare down at my notes for the rest of my shift.

Confused doesn't even begin to describe it.

The very second I'm dismissed, I bow and turn to go without looking back at either Cullen or Fione. I can’t, not when I'm scared of the smiles they might send my way or anything they might ask of me. Just seeing them together and hearing them joke around is enough to send my stomach into knots.

This is stupid. I'm _better_ than this. At least I should be, especially after all this time in their presence. _Pathetic_.

I go straight to the kitchen and eat there by my lonesome, praying nobody will come looking for me.

*

Eventually I learn the hard way that demons can tell when you're in a foul mood.

I thank the stupid Maker that neither of the major causes of my mental anguish go looking for me in the afternoon. And neither does Solas, surprisingly enough. When I pass by his rotunda, he nonchalantly tells me he has research to focus on for today, and that he'll see me tomorrow. And then he disappears off somewhere. I'm mostly glad training can wait another day; if I have to deal with the usual frustration right now I might explode.

When I climb the stairs towards the library, my eyes immediately sweep the room. There are a couple of mages milling about, picking books off the now-clean shelves, but Dorian is nowhere to be found.

I'm only disappointed for a brief moment before I remember I'm supposed to be sulking, and I take the first book I can reach and disappear into the gardens.

I won't have a problem dodging Fione for the rest of the day, considering she's the all important Inquisitor and I can feel her constantly getting hounded by scouts for important business to attend to. Not that I actively check what she's doing. Not on purpose at least.

It's a bit harder to ignore someone when they're a shining beacon in your periphery.

When I realize the one book I picked up is just a bit of Chantry fluff, I head back to my room. Burying myself deep into some of Solas' denser books kept me distracted well enough. When I'm trying to make sense of a magical theory the pang of Fione's ever shifting emotions in my chest is less noticeable. Sometimes I even lose track of her as she runs around Skyhold.

I hope she doesn't sense the knot of utter confusion in my gut, but considering how sensitive I've been to her since she returned, I'd say that's just desperate optimism.

Sleep comes the moment I hit the pillow, but emotional exhaustion isn't enough to knock me out completely. I slip into the Fade, and I'm greeted with an… unfortunate sight.

The green of the Fade—it's always the same green, which I imagine was the color of the Breach—pours in all around me. Eventually the wisps of smoke become more solid, turning into the walls of my childhood home. The one with weak stone walls and a ceiling discolored by leaks. It's raining, an aggressive onslaught where every oversized drop slams against the tin roof.

And here, sitting at the rickety kitchen table, is my mother. Dark hair pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head, skin a sickly pale, almost translucent, and ribcage showing through her thin nightgown.

Except it's not actually her.

The demon turns its head towards me the second I clock its true nature, and a monstrous smile spreads over my mother's stolen lips.

"Smart girl," it purrs, and I can't resist the magnetic pull that ushers me forward. I sit down on the adjacent seat. This image of her was taken straight from my memory; it even managed to nail down the tired wrinkles around her eyes. Age wasn't kind to her.

The demon inches its hand closer to me; if I concentrate hard enough, I can see the image of my mother flicker in and out, revealing a rough, ice-like claw. A sinkhole opens up in my gut. _Stay vigilant, Cara._ It's make or break time. **

"Wouldn't things be easier if you were just… better? Stronger, smarter, more _powerful_?" Even from two feet away, the demon's voice sounds painfully close, like a fly buzzing in my ears. "I will make you everything you wish to be. You need not be so weak."

"You lost that chance when you decided not to raise me," I bite out. "That's the best offer you got, ma?"

My mother's lips curl into the demon's snarl. In all my memories, she never let herself show that much cruelty. It makes her face look distorted, inhuman. I see the demon's power glisten behind the gold in her eyes.

"It is more than what you have. You are nothing."

I steel myself, forcing my harried mind to focus on my body. The demon is lying to me. The demon wants nothing more than a foothold in a mortal brain. I hold the power here. I am solid. I am impenetrable.

Can you _breathe_ in the Fade? My lungs expand and contract regardless, and the motion calms me well enough.

"And I'm quite fine being nothing, thanks." I lean back against the Fade-chair, and let out a bitter laugh. "Can you imagine me as the _Inquisitor_? God, no. I'd start several additional wars."

The demon's eye twitches, and the room around us trembles with it. It's only a split second, but it's enough for me to notice. My limbs feel more secure now; I no longer feel that sticky dread creeping through my veins.

I might win this yet.

Still, the demon is just as stubborn as I am. It gives another sickly smile. I can almost _see_ the moment it decides to switch strategies, and I brace myself.

"Perhaps you'll be better persuaded by your more… primal desires."

Then my mother melts away, her body wobbling and stretching and expanding until it shifts into… someone else.

Mother _fucker_.

"Is this better?" His voice is husky and rough, like he's just woken up. I curse the thrill it sends down my spine. "I’m sure there’s _something_ you want from me."

It's a good likeness, I'll admit. The demon didn't have to dig too deep to find him, considering he's the person I've spent the most time with in the last week.

Except it's got his demeanor all wrong. He'd never tilt his head like that. Wouldn't curl his lip to the side the way it's doing, trying to look seductive or whatever. Would never willingly lean on a table that way. It's sad, really.

The room around us ripples. The rickety dining room table expands into his sturdy desk, the weak walls stretching up into Skyhold's stone walls. And soon we're in a green-tinted facsimile of Cullen's office, captured in perfect detail.

How much longer is this going to be? I haven't been able to ask Solas about the way time works while you're asleep in the Fade. I imagine I don't actually spend hours upon hours here going back and forth with demons in the shape of _very attractive_ men, but who knows how memory retention works for dreams. I certainly have no idea.

"Wait, did you say _primal_?" I shake my head, stifling a laugh. "Is _this_ what you meant by that? A bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"

The demon continues to smile, and Cullen's lips look strange stretched that wide. I don't think I've ever seen him grin that big. Like, _ever_.

"Why lie to yourself? What good does it do you?"

I roll my eyes. This thing really doesn't know me at all.

"Does a bitch _have_ to do things that are good for her?"

"But that is wasteful, and you are nothing if not practical."

"With material things, not my own thoughts. I'm as wasteful as fuck when it comes to overthinking the shit out of things. That's how I like it."

Not-Cullen takes a step towards me, and I take a step back. I've got about two feet left before I'm crowded back into the Fade-wall, which would probably be _bad_ , regardless of how non-corporeal it is.

The demon lifts a hand, tapping its chin with a single finger. "And yet you still allowed me to step into your domain. Interesting."

I narrow my eyes at it.

" _Allowed_ you?"

"You _want_ me here," the demon says, and it sounds so certain that the words reverberate in my chest. Like my heart wants them to be true. "There is a gaping hole inside you, _hungry,_ lacking. You want what I can give you. And I can give you _so_ _much_..."

Suddenly my skin feels too tight, suffocating me from every possible angle. The creature takes a step forward but my feet are planted on the floor, solid rock. My throat constricts so tightly I wonder if my head's being cut off at the neck. I shut my eyes and brace myself for impact.

But it doesn't come.

My breath catches as two golden irises glint in the darkness behind my eyelids. Piercing and playful and powerful, everything and nothing all at once. It sends a lighting strike of fear into the depths of my soul. The gold shimmering and swirling in my mind, forcing feeling back into my limbs and air back into my lungs.

It's _her_.

_"Leave."_

Her voice is domineering; nothing in the world—not Corypheus, not even the Maker himself—could have denied her in that moment. Even without opening my eyes I know the demon complies, and its oppressive presence dissipates like dust in the wind.

The room disappears around me, leaving me in an undetermined void, the green wisps of the Fade clinging to me like honey. That was a close fucking call. If it wasn't for—

I bite back the panic and the relief and the self-loathing and focus on the surge of annoyance rising in my chest like a wave.

"I could've handled that myself," I spit out into the darkness.

In the corners of my mind, I swear I see her smile.

_"Of course."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS IS A BIT LATE.... anyway im changing the update schedule to every other sunday, AND im doing this fic for nanowrimo!!! i definitely have a good chunk of it written buts its scattered throughout the narrative i have a LOT of connecting tissue to barrel through lmao
> 
> hope you all enjoyed this chapter even if it was a bit shorter than normal!!! as always thank u to lovely mj for being a god and making my work presentable.


	11. Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara takes in information like a sponge.

The Herald’s Rest is lonely when the Chargers are off on their own missions. I really shouldn't have expected them to stay here and be Skyhold's garrison or something. They're a mercenary band, and that means jobs. Jobs that'll take them away.

Regret is like a sour taste on my tongue that no amount of ale can wash away. Had I known the Chargers would be gone today I might've swallowed down my shit mood and spent last night with them anyway. Maybe a distraction would've done just as well as Varric and Blackwall's quiet company.

Now they're sweeping the remains of Haven, checking for stragglers and getting drunk without me. Life isn't fair.

The _worst_ part is the fact that I woke up perfectly well-rested. Even after harboring a demon inside of me for a good chunk of the night, the witch in my head still managed to sneak in a few hours of good, deep sleep for me. Like I didn't owe her enough already. She'll come to collect soon enough, and I'll be putty under her stupid magical fingers. Ick.

I've been trying to convince myself that I could've handled that demon on my own, but considering the fact that I was barely able to keep eye contact with Cullen for my entire shift today I'd say that was a failure.

Doesn't help that Dorian's gone with Fione. Varric and Blackwall are fine company, but I'm not gonna force them to babysit my depressed ass two nights in a row. Either way, the 'Rest still isn't the same without the mercenary group's frenetic energy. Even Sera calls it an early night. So I end up alone at the bar, nursing an ale while Cabot pointedly ignores my attempts at conversation.

All the better, I guess. I must look real sad. All my life I’ve been alone, and after a few days with actual friends I’ve ended up completely incapable of spending time by myself.

Whatever. I have alcohol to keep me company, though it does nothing to improve my mood.

I haven't yet had the chance to truly, utterly drown my sorrows.

Casual drinking every night, that's kid shit. A whole bottle of wine shared between three people is barely enough to numb me to everything that’s going on right now. After having to look at Cullen for an extended period of time this morning, I deserve at least three bottles of that fucked up Qunari poison Iron Bull peddled last week. My gut tells me I know _exactly_ what a true blackout feels like, and it feels like my brain wants to chase it like a high that's always just a little bit out of reach. If I die from alcohol poisoning, at least that means I know Leliana didn't do it. Probably.

That's another ale gone. At least Cabot doesn't ignore me when I ask for refills; he's just not here for my sad bullshit, which, you know. Fair. I wouldn't be here for it either, if I could help it.

After a while someone takes the stool next to me. I don't even bother to acknowledge them—not in the mood—until they lean in just enough to jab an elbow into my side. His very much still _armored_ elbow. Ow.

"You drink more than half our soldiers, lass," Captain Rylen says as Cabot pours him his own drink, "You sure you don't have a problem?"

My _problem_ is I'm way too sober right now, but I'm not saying _that_ out loud.

"I'm sure, Captain." I give him the best smile I can muster. At least I'm not alone anymore. "Drinking less now that my worst enablers are out in the field."

Now that I think about it, getting absolutely shitfaced with more people around might be preferable. I'd be mortified in the morning, and the chatter would be unbelievable, but at least they'd make sure I don't die walking up the stairs. Pros and cons.

"I'll see to that. Wouldn't want you falling arse over tea kettle tomorrow morning."

I roll my eyes. "Hasn't happened yet, Rylen."

"I'll make sure of that. Commander would have my ass if you did." Rylen chuckles at that, and I tilt my head to the side.

"Your ass? Why not mine?"

"He won't risk angering Lady Inquisitor," Rylen explains, "Give you a stern talking to, maybe, but wouldn't take your ass for anything less than high treason."

This isn't the kind of protection I wanted from being friends with Fione. Keep me alive, sure, but keep me from getting scolded for doing a job incorrectly? That's a step too far. I mean, I know I’m here looking to get wasted, but I'm more than capable of working through a hangover. I'll even hold my tongue so Cullen won't have to listen to me complain.

I splay my hand out on my chest, and feign a gasp like I'm one of those visiting Orlesian nobles that likes to gossip in the Main Hall.

"Are you saying he's _coddling_ me?"

"Maker forbid." Rylen laughs in earnest, shaking his head. "Man wouldn't know how to coddle if you put a pup in his hands."

"What then?" I squint at him, mostly to get a better look at the man because this alcohol's starting to make things blurry. "Rylen. I know that look. You're hiding something and I'm not gonna let you walk out of here without telling me what it is."

"Nothing to concern yourself with, trust me."

There's something hidden in the corners of his smile that _infuriates_ me. I hate not knowing this, especially when they're right in front of me. Why can't he be as easy to read as his Commander?

"Why are all the men in my life so horrible?" I lament, throwing my hands up in the air. "Makes a girl wonder where all the gentlemen have gone."

"Your fault for throwing your lot in with mercenaries and soldiers," Rylen points out.

"Yeah, sure, blame the _lady_."

"If the boot fits, lass."

I'm stuck on the idea that Cullen treats me with kid gloves. Does he really? Here I thought I was just fairly competent at my job and he was putting up with my sassing and frequent teasing because he's a decent dude who understands that's just how I am and it never kept me from doing what he asked. I never considered that he wouldn't stand for this behavior if I was truly just some random and not… me.

Maybe with this in consideration I can collect new data on how he treats me. That'll be fun to watch out for, but right now I'm not sure how I'll be able to judge without bias. I hate being the subject of all my own experiments.

"How's he doing these days?" I ask casually, silently cursing myself for not moving the subject further away from the source of all my current confusion. "Must be less stressed out now that Skyhold's up and running like an actual castle."

"You'd know better than I. Cullen would find a way to run himself ragged sitting on his ass and knitting all day." Rylen shrugs, taking a swig of his drink. "Part of his charm, I s'pose."

I scowl. I do _not_ want to be thinking about his _charms_ , because he doesn't have any. No matter what that blasted demon thinks. He's a wet blanket wrapped around a man somehow made entirely out of wood whose personality consists of swords.

"Not so charming when I have to force food down his throat."

"Aye, you're doing good work, Car. None of the boys see him like that." There's an edge of regret in Rylen's voice. He probably wishes he could do more. "Makes him look weak, he'll say. Can't have the soldiers catching that scent, he thinks, even if it's plain as day on his face."

"Stubborn asshole."

"Don't have to tell me." Rylen laughs, patting me good-naturedly on the shoulder. "I’ve seen the way you train with that elf. You'd give him a run for his sovereigns. I’d love to see you two butt heads, just once. Now _that_ would be a sight to see."

A genuine argument between me and Cullen. Based on how I conduct myself when I'm drinking with the Chargers, they'd probably start charging tickets for the show. My short temper matched with the way he lets his anger simmer under the surface for as long as possible would probably give the Conclave a run for its money.

"It would be bloody, I can tell you that much," is all I say.

"I'd bet on you, if it's any comfort."

"You know what, Rylen? It is."

*

It doesn't take long for Dorian to peruse the collection of books available in the library and deem the selection absolutely abysmal, but that doesn't stop him from making himself at home.

Dorian doesn't even wait for me to ask; our routine builds itself naturally. The moment we carve out a space for ourselves in Skyhold's library, he decides it's his personal mission to make me the most well-read apostate in Thedas. Books on every school of magic land in my lap, starting from the simplest to the ground up.

He points out which books are on magical wards, and then encourages me to find another school of magic to study. Theory can fill the gap while my casting develops, he says. And he promises me some comprehensible notes on the time magic he and Alexius developed; I won’t be able to understand it very well, but he and Solas can walk me through it together.

Solas has books of his own, outside the scope of the library, and he's more than happy to lend them to me on the promise that I take care of them. I perch myself in his rotunda, taking whichever seat isn't occupied by him at the time, and read through whatever books on the Fade and magic he deems acceptable for my studies.

My training gets a little more intense now that I've got wards down. Solas has me trying out other types: force, spirit, entropy. The theoretical knowledge helps immensely when he's teaching me how to harness the singing in my blood in the forest just outside Skyhold.

I'm grateful for the privacy; Solas found a clearing just off the path into the valley, and it's large enough to fit a spar between two or three people.

Dorian points out just how lucky I am that the Inquisition houses mages from almost every single possible education background. It means the revolving door of my teachers always holds a surprise.

Sometimes it's Solas, and sometimes it's Dorian, and on occasion it's Dalish. The fact that she still vehemently denies she's a mage while throwing fire at me adds another layer of difficulty, considering falling to the ground laughing will get me burnt to a crisp. Vivienne comes to observe sometimes, and makes the occasional well-placed comment that's always incredibly helpful and precise. I make a note to get over myself and ask her to train me herself sometimes; unlikely that she'll make me grit my teeth any worse than Solas does.

Fione never takes more than one other mage at a time on her missions—which is a wise move, Solas says—so there will always be someone here to teach me. It's slow going, as expected, but it's enough.

I love it most when it's Fione.

We learn, later on, when the cork on the bottle of my mana finally dislodges enough for some to trickle out, that I have an affinity for force magic.

It's not much—a light shove here and there, and certainly not enough for proper combat—but it's a start. That's what Dorian tells me, over and over again. It's a step towards the right direction.

When I manage to create a tiny lick of fire on my fingertip, I end up jumping up and down and flinging my arms around Solas himself. It's a bit embarrassing, but he accepts the hug with grace.

Weeks pass before my eyes, and Skyhold grows and breathes and is built up into something magnificent. I take great pleasure in watching the repairs and the renovations take shape, incapable of hiding the glee on my face when previously collapsed towers and barren wings cross the threshold into habitable. Cullen teases me for it sometimes, but I know he's bursting with pride too.

It's been a few weeks, but it still feels strange to be a part of something larger than myself.

*

Time passes like sand through my fingers. And it's an unpleasant gut punch when I realize Fione and I haven't spoken about the strange connection between us—the dreams, the emotions, the aura—since the camp in the Frostbacks. Like we're playing a game of chicken, waiting to see who'll bring it up first.

It's childish, but I like how uncomplicated our friendship is. I feel _comfortable_ around her, like I've known her my whole life and can coast by on instinct. Putting all this magical bullshit in between that might break the delicate balance we have.

Either way, she's got enough to worry about. At least the books fill up the Void steadily growing inside my gut.

It's not a metaphorical Void either. I _feel_ it, like there's an actual vortex in my stomach. The longer Fione—the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, the woman in the fast-catching rumors and the angry whispers—is gone from Skyhold, the more it gnaws at me, eating away at me like mold until I'm hollowed out. Nothing in the tomes I pour over can explain the feeling, and it's not purely emotional, though that’s certainly… a factor. As surely as I know I have all my fingers and this is a magical affliction, but I can't bring myself to bring it up to Solas.

I know that makes me a coward. All I hope is that it doesn't kill me. And the first time the thought passes my mind, the voice in my head answers.

_"You are not so weak."_

The voice rarely speaks nowadays. I suppose my exploits in Skyhold are too boring for her or something. All the excitement of Haven must've brought her to the forefront. Or she's still peeved at me for the fact she had to save my ass from a demon.

My sleep has been utterly blissful since that night, like she put up 'Fuck Off' signs all around me in the Fade. I try not to think too hard about that either.

I make the educated guess that she's connected to my visions. Solas said my visions are just a kind of magic, tied closely to the manipulation of the Fade, and she's managed to protect me in a way I don't think any mage is capable of. It's only right the one forcing strange images of the near future into my head is the same deranged woman who keeps talking to me like I'm supposed to know who she is. She's stressing me out more than helping, but at this point I sincerely doubt she speaks to reassure me.

In all this time, I only have a single vision. It happens when Cullen and I are alone in his office, and it's of a Red Lyrium mine on the Storm Coast. I see the grotesque bodies of Red Templars twisted beyond human recognition, snarling so close to me that I can smell the way the substance has rotted their flesh. I come back wanting to hurl.

Thankfully Cullen seems less affected than me, and he manages to steady me well enough that I can get to the War Room without having to lean on him. With Cullen's description, Leliana is able to mark the location on the map and quickly sends a missive to Fione, directing additional Inquisition forces that way to clear the entrance.

It feels good to help, even in the miniscule way I can. But that doesn't manage to squash the feeling of worthlessness that still manages to creep up on me when I think of Fione out there, solving problems I can't even imagine, getting her hands dirty in a way I wouldn't survive.

So I read. I feed the hungry beast inside of me until I’ve torn through book after book, and then I seek out Fione's other companions for solutions to the way my ears ring and my head aches until I find something to distract myself or some information to absorb.

Even Vivienne—prickly as she seems— _click clacks_ her heels into the library to pick out a selection of Orlesian novels and primers on Alchemy for me. Not once does she initiate polite conversation, save for the little _hmms_ that slips through her closed lips, but once she's satisfied she gives me a knowing sort of smile. One that I might never understand, but I'm grateful all the same.

Varric. Sweet Maker, _Varric_. Like sunshine through parted clouds. If his heart wasn't already somewhere else I'd have proposed to him by now. The pesky little dwarf takes a shining to me when he discovers my love of books, and demands his publisher send me a copy of everything he's ever released. It arrives in a crate almost as tall as he is—the extra copies are for the visiting nobles, of course, should they want an autograph—and he promises me that I'll always have a seat at his table if I have a question.

And questions, boy, do I have them.

There's a kindness in him that is well worn and broken in, like he's been through all of this curiosity before. Not a single query is too simple, or too easy. There is patience and loyalty tucked into the corners of him, like he's taken in other lost souls with their hearts bloodied and broken by circumstance and pushed their guts back in and stitched them back up. I wonder how he ended up here, finding new friends and new allies to put back together.

When I'm sitting in the 'Rest and looking for a quiet night, Varric fills the Void inside me better than anyone else, because it's not just books he offers. It's so much more.

Cole sits with us sometimes, and listens to us talk. I think he wants to learn from Varric, because by all accounts, Varric is the best at knowing just how to _help_.

My mind is a crude steel trap, it seems. I try to force myself to slow down, to really soak in the information as best as I can, but when I find myself settling into a routine it's hard to pull in the reins of my curiosity. My mornings are predictable—as predictable as working in a fantasy world for a large far-reaching military operation can be—but I can never know what the afternoon can bring. Every new topic fascinates me; the unfamiliar calls out in a way I can't describe. Learning new things at least gives me a reason to stay out of my own thoughts.

I relearn the bits and bobs of my brain and the odd way it creaks through newly acquired knowledge. The first thing I learned— on that fateful night I murmured the Chant of Light in Cullen's tent— is that I retain information better if I hear it in my own voice.

At first, Dorian can't _stand_ it; he throws pillows in my direction to get me to shut up. Eventually he sits me down and teaches me a concentrated version of the spell he used that first night we sat together and talked. Muffling, or a zone of silence.

To my utter surprise, it doesn't take long. It's quite literally the only spell I've been able to do well on the first try, and I'm giddy with it. And even without saying so I know he is too, from the way the corners of his eyes bunch up in a smile.

My magic sparks across my fingertips and dances around my knuckles before it settles in the air around me. A sphere just large enough to cover my head ripples the world around me for a moment before disappearing entirely, invisible.

Eventually Dorian bans me from using it without him present, when I begin to miss all the dinner bells in my auditory solitude.

*

Sometimes books aren't meant to be finished. I must have a complex or something, because eventually going through a whole book from start to finish starts to feel like pulling teeth. Dorian thankfully knows a thing or two about effective research methods, so he gives me tips on how to navigate sections and take notes and skim passages. As a result I end up tearing through stacks even faster than before.

It's only right, I decide, that I go back to the man that started it all. And _no_ , this isn't just an excuse to check on him.

A small light flickers through the high window of Cullen's office. It's a miracle he ever gets any work done, considering the amount of people who are always running through the room and banging open the three different doors. Sometimes not even for him; people just pass by. The rattle of metal and wood against stone in a constant back and forth.

No wonder he always seems to be nursing a headache. I would be too. At least when I'm on the job in the mornings he gets to walk around in the sun, and even on days he spends bound to his desk, I'm never just sitting there.

When I open the door and slip inside, he doesn't bother glancing up. I suppose he can see it's me from his periphery, or maybe he's so used to me running in and out of here that he can tell it's me from the sound of my footsteps alone. Who knows?

"Lady Cara," He says casually, and I marvel at the way his voice carries over the darkness.

"You know, everyone always calls me that." I lean my back against the door, arms crossed, and smile at him. Companionable. He's been nothing but kind to me since I've started working for him, so it's only right to return it. "And I'm starting to realize I'm no lady. So no point in it. You never call me that when I'm working anyway."

He rubs the back of his neck. It's my favorite little tick of his; he does it when he's nervous. Like how I pick at my fingernails or scratch at my temples. Usually happens when I let my humor slip through during work. Is he this nervous in front of every woman? Or do I make him especially uncomfortable?

You'd think after all this time together he'd be used to me by now.

"You're off-duty right now. It's a matter of decorum," He insists, sounding like he's had this conversation with himself a thousand times before. Adorable.

Oh how I just wish it was harder to tease him. I'm in a good mood; not sure if that makes him lucky or unlucky.

"Of course, Commander," I feel my smile grow wide, "I'd never ask you to be rude to a woman."

"How can I help you, soldier?"

The address just makes me want to grin wider, if it were possible. He doesn't bother to get up, so I invite myself over to the bookshelf in the corner. It wasn't here the first time I was called in, and I’ve watched it slowly fill up as more merchants and packages arrive at Skyhold. My fingers drift over the spines, trying to see what they say in the low light. It's nigh impossible.

"I was hoping to ask for books."

"From what I understand, you spend most of your afternoons in the library." His quill scratches loudly, but I can hear the curiosity in his voice. "What could I possibly offer?"

"Your input, Commander." I smile to myself, my back still turned to him. "Don't tell me you think it's not worth much."

It's agony not being able to look at Cullen's face while I talk. I've become a little obsessed with the little shifts of emotion in his features. The clench of a jaw, eyes softening, eyebrows knitting, lip smacking, his scar pulling when his cheek shifts. A thousand different movements to translate.

Maybe Dorian's right about my feelings, but I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

"Unfortunately most of what I have right now are military tactics." Cullen says as I turn back to pick out something to browse. Even without looking I know he's embarrassed. "I'm not sure you'd enjoy them."

I can't help it. When I turn with a book in my hands, his own hands have stilled, missive left unfinished as he watches me flip through the pages.

"Says who?" I continue, "I study broadly, and without fear. Maybe I'll learn how to swing a sword, or calibrate a trebuchet."

"If you wish to learn sword fighting, I could easily teach you." There's that shy little smile. I'll never get sick of it.

"Are you offering?" I try to tease him, but it sputters out into a giggle. The image of me with a sword is too much. "No, no, I think I'd be terrible, but thank you."

A short silence drapes over both of us, the wind whistling through the hole in his ceiling. I wonder if he has any intention of fixing that; he seems like the type to insist every single part of Skyhold is more important than his own living quarters.

His candle flickers as the wick burns a little too small, and the light catches on his skin. He looks paler than usual, and I want to smack myself for not noticing the droopy way his shoulders move earlier. _That's what you get for being a shy schoolgirl, you nitwit._

"Have you eaten?" I ask, and the way he recoils is answer enough.

"I—" Cullen barely gets one word out before he abandons the lie. Maybe he picks up on more than I expected he would. "No, I haven't. There was much work to be done. It slipped my mind."

I think back on our first proper conversation, when he'd insisted he'd already eaten, before I knew his tells. How many times has he foregone meals? He dismisses me midday, before the meal bell rings. Does he skip that too? I've forced him to eat on occasion, but I figured he took care of himself _sometimes_.

I don't need to be a doctor to know that's not healthy, especially considering I'm too intimately familiar with how ragged he runs himself working.

_You useless man._ I shelve the book and head over to grab him by the elbow — the only bit of his arm not encumbered by that massive armor and so the only place I could get a proper hold of him.

"Alright then. Up you get."

The panicked way his eyes widen would be adorable if I wasn't so worried about his stupid ass.

"Lady Car—"

"What did I say? Call me Cara. It's less work for the mouth. Not to mention I work _for_ you." When I've got him properly standing, I drag him to the southern door. "We're going to the kitchen."

"Right now? It's the middle of the night."

I snuff out his candle with a quick blow.

"Now, Commander, don't say that like it's my fault. I don't control the passage of time." It only takes a few steps for him to stop dragging his feet, and I wind my arm through the crook of his elbow properly. No getting away from me. "Come on. You'll run yourself into the ground. The night air will do you good."

"Perhaps."

He doesn't protest like I thought he would when I set the tip of my finger aflame. Not even a flinch. Maybe the big scary Templar is loosening up a little. In fact, he inquires on my progress and we chat amicably about how dreadful I am at magic as we head down the battlements.

The flame is a tiny thing—barely enough light to see at all—but I manage to catch sight of some dried peaches and a loaf of bread that's more than enough for the two of us. I push him down onto the bench at the table right there in the kitchen and force him to take alternating bites with me.

Later on I find out that he does have books on other subjects, though I borrow the ones about military tactics anyway. And my zone of silence works well enough from a couch in the corner of his office. Sure, I had to clean up the clutter around it and have it reupholstered and all that, but Josephine was kind enough to give me some spare fabric. And it keeps me out of the way, so none of the scouts and runners and soldiers doing their patrols trip over me.

The light is just as good here during the afternoon when I finish training, with the added bonus of not having to fight with Dorian over the plush velvet seat by the window. I don't have to be a mind reader to know it's his favorite spot and he only lets me sit there to be a gentleman.

I can focus on finishing the stack of books I've brought without the distraction of a dozen full shelves just two steps away. And I don't have to smell all the ravens, or watch the researchers walking about. I tell myself it's to keep abreast with his business throughout the day, even if I know I can't hear any of it anyway.

That's what I like about the tower, I tell myself. I know it's a lie, but it's a pretty convincing one, all the same.

The headaches are there, ever present and in my humble civilian opinion, likely worsening. Sometimes he goes pale and sweaty in the afternoon, and I've noticed he's started to flinch away from direct sunlight.

At first I figure he's forgetting his meals again, so when I finish my duties in the morning I make it a habit to do one last dash to the kitchens before taking my own meal in the main hall, and I get someone to bring Cullen something to eat for his midday meal.

After a few days, I start doing it myself. I always run off before he has the chance to thank me. After another few days, I have someone install a little table in the corner for jugs of water.

He improves somewhat, though the pain is still there. Even if some of the symptoms can be alleviated with proper food and hydration there's clearly something happening underneath that he's not sharing with me. And until he does, I'm powerless to help.

It's not a good feeling, or fun thing to watch, but he's a grown man. If he wants to tell me, he'll tell me.

As far as my evenings, well, I don't need Dorian to bring me to supper anymore. All I have to do is watch the way Cullen's temple throbs, because his energy drains around the same time each day. I always manage to look up just in time to drag Cullen towards the main hall.

And if I look up from my books to glance at him a couple times during the day, just for my own sick enjoyment, who's to know? I certainly don't keep count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aahhh here's more cara!!! she's settling in quite nicely :) i hope it doesn't feel like things are moving too slow, this is a slow burn in every sense of the word, including the plot lmao ive just got a lot of show. maybe ill do a separate doc for extra scenes idk
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it!!! as always, comments are appreciated. thank you to mj who is my lifeblood. 
> 
> see you all next update <3


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